


Negative Halo, Part One: Institution

by Captain Raspberry (AuctoremSceleris)



Series: Negative Halo [1]
Category: Halo (Video Games) & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Elites | Sangheili - Freeform, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:21:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 27,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23805268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuctoremSceleris/pseuds/Captain%20Raspberry
Summary: A soldier, a believer, a martyr. Oriné 'Fulsamee wants to serve the Covenant as a warrior, and he relishes the opportunity to lay his life upon the altar of sacrifice in service to the Great Journey. However, as he takes up this mantle, he will pay a price in blood and innocence which may consume him and his family.
Series: Negative Halo [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1715095
Comments: 3
Kudos: 6





	1. Test on the Sands

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for taking the time to read this story. It's the first of four in this series, and I hope you'll enjoy every entry. It's the story of Oriné 'Fulsamee, a young Sangheili on the rise through the ranks of the Covenant.
> 
> Before you begin, I wanted to let you know something: Negative Halo doesn't match up with Halo's official canon. I started writing it in 2003, back when the official canon was limited to Halo: Combat Evolved, The Fall of Reach, and The Flood. There was very little we knew about Covenant culture. That meant I—and several of my fellow fanfic authors at the time, all of whom were (and likely still are) very creative and talented—had to fill in a lot of the blanks. As you might imagine, as more games and books came out, we got some stuff wrong.
> 
> Some of it was easy to fix. The proper name of the Sangheili homeworld, the name of the tuning fork-shaped dropship, those were as easy as "find and replace." But other things couldn't be fixed so easily. These things were at the heart of my story, things like the lack of medicine among the Sangheili, their unique family structure, the Arbiter's identity. To change those would be to alter the very core of the story I wanted to tell.
> 
> So I didn't change it. The Sangheili in my stories have healers, they know their fathers and mothers and live in more recognizable family units. (As for the Arbiter, well, you'll have to keep reading.) At the time, ignoring canon was fine, because so little of it existed. But ever since I finished the overall series I've received several reviews where people tell me some aspect of the Sangheili here is "wrong." That led me to add this introduction, as well as make some changes that emphasize this story not existing within the Halo canon.
> 
> Of you, dear reader, I ask only this: please read and enjoy the story based on its own merits. Remember that it comes from a time before we knew a lot about this universe, and that myself and others put a great deal of work into this culture that was—perhaps inevitably—made obsolete. Finally, if you like it, please share it with someone else.

**Chapter One:** Test on the Sands

The landscape of Jisako stood in stark contrast with Sanghelios. The latter was a civilized world, with cities and monuments that spoke to the ruggedness of its people, the Sangheili. Jisako, on the other hand, was barren, barely habitable, with storms to bury the weak and predators to feed on the unwary. 

It was the crucible in which Sangheili warriors were forged. For thousands of years, those who wished to serve the Holy Covenant trained to survive the harsh environment. Sangheili on the cusp of adulthood would spend one year there, given only rudimentary supplies. Survival meant service and absolution. Death was failure.

As dawn broke over a collection of small tents, the Sangheili within stirred. It felt like an eternity since they had arrived. At first they tracked the passage of time diligently, but as the days were spent fighting for survival and nights filled with terror and uncertainty, they lost themselves. The days were now tracked by the dullness of their blades, the number of patches in the tent hides. For all they knew, their families had forgotten them, and Jisako was their new home. Only a sense of duty carried them along, and the growing sense that maybe today, tomorrow, this week could be the day of their salvation.

Two of them were already dead. One fallen to predators, the other to dehydration. Funeral rites were held as best they could manage. They had no cleric for services nor enough wood for a pyre. Instead, the bodies were buried, unmarked, in a distant valley so as not to attract fearsome things. They offered what prayers they could to help their souls along the Great Journey. Those who kept their lives were only scarred by predators, burned by the sun, dried out from thirst.

A distance from camp a Sangheili lay flat on his stomach, allowing the sun to bake the night's chill from his naked, leathery back. He watched the wasteland for threats. His eyes were tired from a night's vigil. His spear lay at his side, his hand resting over it. He had a sword as well, one of the few still unbroken, but it was tied firmly to his hip.

He stirred at the sound of shifting sand. A regular pattern. He recognized them as footfalls from camp. A shadow fell over his back.

"Oriné," said Yara 'Orgal. "It's time to eat."

Oriné 'Fulsam picked himself out of the sand, brushing particulate from between the grooves of his darkened blue skin. A year ago, it had been tender and supple; now it was hard and rough, a natural armor.

"Praise the Gods," he said. "I'm starving."

"Well, drink deep and eat hearty, my friend. We have a feast waiting for you."

* * *

**Twelve months ago.**

Oriné had never ridden in a Spirit before. He used to stand on his family's balcony, staring up at the sky and watching the fork-shaped dropships passing overhead. He knew his future would involve riding those same ships to glory against the Covenant's enemies. His father told stories of riding in them, especially of the danger involved. When the doors on the side fell open, the warriors there would be exposed to enemy fire. They had to be fearless, his father said.

Oriné was determined to become so.

He peered out the narrow viewport. The bleak landscape of Jisako sailed by underneath. Seas of dunes broken by jagged outcroppings of rock. It was his first time off-world, and he couldn't help but marvel at the difference between it and his home world. Sanghelios was largely arid like this, but his family lived in the capital along the shores of the tropical equator. His childhood had been spent by the ocean. It would be a change to live here.

In the distance, he saw the shimmer of a lake. His father had told him to make mental notes of landmarks and water sources, so Oriné did his best to stay oriented to it just in case the Spirit landed them nearby.

It did not.

When the side doors finally fell open, the novitiates marched out onto the sands. Oriné was glad to be out of the Spirit's confines. Their ride through the atmosphere had been preceded by a journey across space in a cramped courier ship. The air here, though hot, was fresh. Oriné filled his lungs with it. The bottom of his feet burned, but he was glad for the sensation. It made everything feel more real. More consequential.

After they exited, a Sangheili in the cobalt blue armor of a Covenant Minor followed. He barked an order, and Oriné and his fellow novitiates organized themselves into three lines of ten. The Sangheili Minor sized up their formation and nodded his approval.

"You are about to embark on a deadly and treacherous rite," he began. "You may die, many of you, but to survive will earn you a place in the military might of the Holy Covenant. Pass this oldest test of discipline, and you will be inducted into the halls of a war college to further your education in combat, tactics, and strategy.

"You are alone here. We will not return until a full year on Sanghelios has passed, and so no one will be here to observe your progress but the gods themselves. You will live and die on your wits and skills alone, your achievements and failures witnessed—and judged—by your comrades. Other groups of novitiates are on this planet, but you are forbidden from making contact except to compete for resources."

Here, he paused his speech and looked up at the sun.

"This is midday for Jisako. The crate on the ship contains your swords and shields, bearing the markings of those clans that have performed admirably in this rite. This is all you shall be given. Everything else must be won from the land. Go with the gods, novitiates, and we shall find you in a year."

The Sangheili Minor then turned and walked back into the Spirit, the doors closing behind him. As it began to lift into the sky, the crate—held between the two prongs of the personnel bays—detached and thumped into the sand. The novitiates crowded around it, prying off the top and claiming their swords and shields. They didn't bicker or compete. They were no longer children, but they had yet to prove they were adults. They would earn their names through their actions here, and they were painfully aware of their ancestors watching them.

Oriné drew a sword and admired it. It was well-tempered and cared for, the notches from previous uses worked out of it. As he took a shield and turned, he saw a Sangheili standing out from the crowd. He was one of the few here dressed as an aristocrat, with finely embroidered robes and stitching that paid tribute to his illustrious family. From what he could tell, this Sangheili's father was a Councilor.

Oriné hesitated. Technically, this Councilor's son deserved a fine blade due to his station, but Oriné's own family was well-positioned, too. His father was a Ship Commander, and his brother served as an officer in the fleets. However, his father was now considered inactive, and a Councilor was a much higher caste.

He crossed the sand to the Councilor's son, currently engaged in conversation with another aristocratic Sangheili—the son of a Fleet Master, by his robes. Oriné bowed and offered the sword. "For you, my Lord," he said. "You are worthier of it than I am."

He expected the Councilor's son to look pleased, or more likely indifferent. The Fleet Master's son certainly looked amused. But Oriné was not prepared for the scorn clouding the other Sangheili's face.

"Do you think me weak?"

Oriné was taken aback. "Of course not, my Lord."

"Really? Because you seem to think I'm incapable of walking ten feet to get my own sword."

"That was not—"

"I don't need everything delivered to me. I'm perfectly capable on my own."

Oriné felt the heat rising in his neck despite the blistering sun. The exchange was drawing the attention of the other Sangheili. "You are due certain privileges according to your station, my Lord. I am simply fulfilling them."

The Fleet Master's son stepped forward and put a hand on the Councilor's son's arm. "Yara, this is a time for calmness and understanding."

Yara seemed unconvinced. He slapped the Fleet Master's son's hand away, then stepped up to Oriné and shoved him. "Call me 'my Lord' again!"

Oriné was caught off-balance, but only for a moment. He recovered and dropped the sword into the sand, moving into an unarmed fighting stance. Yara did the same.

A shout carried over the group, heavy with authority. For a moment, Oriné thought the Sangheili Minor had somehow remained to observe them, despite his assurances to the contrary. A flush of embarrassment crept up his neck. But when he looked to the one who had spoken, he saw a fellow novitiate. His posture was sure, his face was grim, but he was no older than Oriné and wore plain, unornamented clothes.

"Don't be fools," he said. "This planet will be the end of us on its own. It doesn't need the help of pathetic rivalries. Bury your pride, or we will bury you."

Like Oriné, Yara was stunned into silence. The speaker turned, drew his own sword from the crate, and stalked off. The would-be competitors shared a sheepish glance. Oriné picked his sword up out of the dirt while Yara went to get his own.

"Who is that?" Oriné asked, watching the one who had stopped the fight. Already others were gathering around him. He managed to look annoyed with the attention even as he spoke to them.

The Fleet Master's son answered, grinning. "His name is Olah 'Seroum. I think he might be the one who keeps us alive."

* * *

**Present day.**

There were five tents in the camp. They were largely made up of animal hides and held up by bones and what remained of the shields, which had proven unreliable against the local creatures. They were far more useful as architecture. The hide was patched with fabric from the novitiates' formal robes, which had also become impractical. The Sangheili had shed them long ago to stay cool and made do with loincloths, if they didn't go naked.

The tents were arranged in a half-circle around a stony fire pit, itself surrounded by flat rocks made to serve as benches. The other twenty-six novitiates were gathered there. Yara's promised feast was a breakfast of thin gruel. It was a muddy, unappetizing fluid, but after a long night on watch it was a welcome meal. Oriné accepted a bowl and waited.

Moments later, Olah 'Seroum called for attention. After the camp's appointed leader—another aristocrat, the son of a Field Master—had died of dehydration, Olah assumed command. He was fierce and spoke little, but he was highly effective as a commander. He was responsible for the nightly watch and routinely lead hunting parties.

Portions of the youths' robes that had survived becoming patches had been fashioned together to create a fabric mantle he wore around his neck. It was a sign of their respect for his leadership.

"Brothers," he said, "join me in prayer."

All bowed their heads:

> _In your infinite light, you guide us,_
> 
> _Show us the Path that we may walk beside you._
> 
> _We seek your wisdom and grace_
> 
> _And in the Great Journey we shall know divinity._
> 
> _We fear no enemy of the Covenant or the Forerunners._
> 
> _We are the blade of our union, the arm of the Prophets._
> 
> _We face no danger that cannot be overcome by the might in us_
> 
> _And our faith in you._

They recited as one. When it was over, the Sangheili drank their gruel, tipping the carved-bone bowls into their mouths. Oriné gulped his down, feeling the warmth in his stomachs. It helped dispel the last vestiges of the cold night.

After breakfast, as the novitiates organized themselves to accomplish the day's tasks, he made his way over to Olah 'Seroum to report. His fellow sentries were doing the same. They all looked haggard and exhausted.

Olah looked at him. "What's your report, 'Fulsam?"

"Nothing of note. Some scavengers drawn in by the fire."

"No larger beasts?"

"No." Oriné glanced at the other guards. "Why?"

"Shadows in the night," Olah growled. He waved a hand at the other sentries. "They claim it was a Yorahii."

Oriné glanced at the others. "We've never encountered one this close to camp."

"Perhaps it's desperation that drives them here," said Rtas 'Vadum, one of the other sentries. "Our recent hunts in the dunes have been fruitless. If food is as scarce for them as it is for us, it may be the Yorahii are migrating towards the badlands."

That did not bode well. Not once in their entire time here had any of the novitiates been able to fell a Yorahii beast. They were massive armored creatures on four trunk-sized legs ending in terrible claws. They had never eaten one of the Sangheili before, but they had killed. The most peculiar detail about them, though, was how they slept. They lived out in the dunes, where there were near-constant sandstorms. While sleeping, the Yorahii always turned the same side to face the wind.

"It doesn't bear thinking about," said Olah. "The beast, if it was there, has come and gone. I will tell tonight's watch to remain vigilant, but there's nothing more to do. Your four may rest now. Join us again for the evening meal."

The sentries offered half-bows and left. Oriné found his way to his tent, which he normally shared with five others. He was grateful for the break from normal duties that the nightly watch earned him. Toiling in the sun to repair equipment or taking part in a scouting group to find food or water was taxing and dangerous. He dropped onto one of the bedrolls and closed his eyes.

He dreamed of beautiful Sanghelios. It was the day of his return: a rare rainstorm greeted him, uncommonly strong for the season, making the buildings and roads slick and shine with moisture. He stood in it, reveling in the sensation. The clouds broke suddenly, allowing the light of the sunset to shine through and warm his skin. It was pleasant, unlike the burning sensation of Jisako's sun. Then he was standing on his family's balcony, staring up at the familiar stars. His mother and father stood with him, happy to have him home, proud that he would be leaving soon to become a warrior of the Covenant.

And there was his sister, floating in the heavens, smiling down at him. The wind began to pick up, pulling at her coven robes, but she kept smiling even as her specter was slowly blown away into ribbons of hissing sand.

The sand blew into his face. He sputtered and awoke to see three Sangheili coming in through the tent flap, bringing the desert with them. Yara was among them.

"What's going on?" asked Oriné. He propped himself up on his arms.

"Just a sandstorm," Yara replied, brushing sand off his skin. "Nothing to worry about."

Oriné nodded and lay back down, but the peace from his earlier dream wouldn't return. Instead he contented himself with picking out patterns in the hide ceiling until his exhaustion pulled him down into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

**Ten months ago.**

Water was the most precious and rare resource on Jisako. In their first two weeks, the novitiates had learned that rain almost never fell, and when it did it was mildly acidic. To make it potable, they had constructed a crude filtering system. But without many storms to catch the falling rain from, they needed a more reliable source. Oriné had been tasked by the Field Master's son to lead a scouting party of seven novitiates into the badlands to search for streams, springs, or just deposits of rain water that hadn't evaporated.

They hiked a narrow path into the hills, armed with their swords in case they encountered predators here. Already some smaller scavengers had happened upon their camp, but they had easily fallen prey to the Sangheili's martial skills. Now the scouts were burdened with several waterskins each, to carry what they found back to the camp's reserves.

Though the scavengers had been small, they had been fierce as well. The novitiates were coming to learn that all creatures on this planet were at least lightly armored and had some natural form of defense, even if they were as simple as scavengers. Most of the vegetation, too, was poisonous to the Sangheili, limiting the sources of food available to them.

They crested the path and Oriné's eyes immediately fell on a small basin of water, hidden from the sun in a small alcove. Some of the poisonous vegetation, thick and knotted shrubs, had grown up around the water. 

He was relieved to see it. The walk had taken a couple of hours and the scouts were tired. He was also wary. A deposit like this would also be known to the fauna of the badlands, both as a watering hole and a place to ambush prey.

Oriné gave a series of hand-signals to the others and they spread out. Three Sangheili stood guard at the alcove entrance while Oriné took three others up to the basin. He kept a careful eye on the shrubs, but there was no rustling to betray what might be hiding there.

"Quickly," he said in a low tone. "Fill your skins, then take guard at the entrance so the others may fill theirs."

"Wait," said one of the scouts. He had brilliant green eyes, rare among Sangheili. Oriné recognized him as the Fleet Master's son, the one who had been speaking with Yara when they first arrived. "We should test the water first."

"How?"

"Easily." The scout dipped one of his skins in the water, partially filled it, and then raised it to his mouth. He squeezed it gently between his mandibles, tasting it. "Hm. Not as bad as the rainwater. This could be a spring filtered up through the dirt."

Oriné nodded. "Then fill your skins to bursting. Let's not stay here any longer than we have to." 

They all filled their skins, but as they turned back to the guards to change places, he heard a peculiar clicking sound. He called for the others to halt, but the warning came too late. Two shapes darted out of the brush, moving around the walls and leaping upon the Sangheili.

They dropped the skins and drew their swords. Oriné swung for the closest shape, his blade digging into alien flesh. It screamed and dropped, writhing in the dirt. He raised his sword and brought it down again, slicing the thing in half. Green blood started to pool beneath it.

He heard a shout from behind. The other had fallen upon the Fleet Master's son. As Oriné turned to strike it, the other Sangheili shifted, pulling his blade out from underneath himself and shoving it up into the creature. It screamed like the other had, trying to twist off the blade, but it was stuck. It flailed about for a moment before it gave a massive twitch, vomited blood onto its killer, and died.

The Fleet Master's son shoved it off to one side and staggered to his feet. There was a gash in his shoulder where it had bit him, but it bled only sparingly. Oriné looked him over. "Are you all right?"

"I still breathe," he grumbled. He rubbed at the thing's ichor on his face and neck.

Oriné grabbed one of his water skins, used it to clean the wound, then tore it apart and used the material to fashion a crude bandage. "We can do more once we get back to camp, but this should hold off infection for now."

"Thank you." The scout offered his arm. "I'm Rtas 'Vadum."

"Oriné 'Fulsam." Oriné clasped Rtas's forearm. He cast a glance at the bodies on the ground. The other Sangheili were crowding around them, studying their strange shapes. Its head was oblong with two large eyes, now lifeless, and a short, sharp beak. Both warriors had struck true, landing fatal blows with each strike.

The creatures were long and narrow, segmented, with thin wings that looked like they would be ineffective for flying. Half a dozen legs hung limply at its sides, ending in points that looked designed for gripping the flesh of its prey.

Rtas leaned in closer. "Do you think it's a predator?"

Oriné looked around. The other scouts had begun filling their water skins, all the warier after the attack. "It seems so scrawny. I would assume it's a scavenger, or maybe... maybe even a parasite?"

"A parasite? I'd hate to see something large enough to consider that just a parasite."

"Hopefully we never will."

But they did.

* * *

**Present day.**

Oriné came to consciousness slowly. It was still light out, though a deeper orange than before. Evening, then. He had been sleeping for hours without interruption, dreaming of memories.

The sandstorm had died down and the other Sangheili had vacated the tent, leaving him alone in silence. If he strained his hearing he could make out the sounds of the camp. Repairs, and combat drills as the youth sparred against each other, teaching and learning different family techniques. Someone was singing faintly, too, an old battle poem. It was the kind sung by their ancestors on the battlefield. He was accompanied by the beat of an improvised drum.

Still groggy, Oriné wondered what had woken him. Then he felt it: a faint rumbling through the sand slowly growing in intensity. The noises of camp subsided as the rumble became audible.

He realized what it was the moment he heard the first crash and the shouting. He jumped to his feet and, seizing his spear and his sword, rushed outside.

Two Yorahii charged through the camp, demolishing one of the tents. It lay in ruins, its structuring poles snapped and its canvas torn to shreds. Nothing moved in the remains, but at a glance Oriné could tell that most of the Sangheili were already outside and mobilizing. That tent had been empty. Probably.

The creatures were several meters taller than the novitiates, their plated hides hard as stone and their eyes sheltered by a thick and prominent brow. They had a quadruple-hinged jaw, much like the Sangheili. One rushed into the center of the camp, bellowing through its open maw, while the other ran in a circle around the outside. The novitiates readied their weapons, trying to encircle the one in the center, but it gnashed at those in front while flicking its armored tail at any that got in behind it.

With a cry of their own, three Sangheili rushed the beast with spears, going for its eyes and mouth. The spears broke harmlessly on its hide, eliciting another roar and a swipe from its lethal claws. They leaped back, avoiding the worst of it, but one was raked across his abdomen. Purple blood splashed out onto the sand. His two companions grabbed him and dragged him backward while three others moved forward to cover their retreat.

Olah 'Seroum was among the defenders. "Warriors!" he called. "Corral this beast!" 

Oriné raised his spear and charged in to assist. With bold maneuvers, the Sangheili could drive the Yorahii back, or even better exhaust and kill it for food. Creatures of this size would provide them with meat enough for weeks—tough and grisly, to be sure, but food nonetheless.

As Oriné approached, he heard a roar from the outside of the camp as the second beast rushed in, determined to save its companion or to capitalize on its assailants' distraction. The novitiates scattered, abandoning their plans to surround the first one as the second stormed through them. Most were able to avoid the worst of it, but one was trampled underfoot, his body crushed into the ground.

The Sangheili could manage one as a group, but trying to corral two Yorahii was impossible. They needed a new plan.

Oriné looked for Yara in the confusion and waved to get his attention. "Draw one of them off," he called out. "I have an idea!"

Yara looked uncertain but nodded, gathering several Sangheili together. They raised a cacophony, making noise by shouting and banging swords and spears together. The two Yorahii turned and charged. As they started moving, however, Oriné threw his spear at the one lagging slightly behind.

The the haft snapped as it bounced off the ridge above the creature's eye. It turned to see Oriné standing alone, separated from the group. Too tempting a target to pass up. It changed direction, charging towards the lone Sangheili.

Oriné readied his sword. He had been careful in its maintenance, trying to keep it from getting dull or brittle. Many other swords had broken in their time here. He hoped it was strong enough for this.

The Yorahii was surprisingly nimble for a creature of its size, but once it reached top speed its mass worked against it. Momentum carried it on a fairly straight pathway. At the last second, it was possible to leap out of the way and have the creature miss by a fair margin. A practiced warrior could accomplish this with ease.

Oriné was not practiced, but his inelegant jump got him out of the way. As his feet planted into the sand, he twisted his body and struck out with his sword. He had one chance; once the Yorahii missed its first pass, it would know that Oriné was neither sick nor wounded and would approach more cautiously on the second.

The blade struck true, lodging between two plates of hide. The sudden change in direction as the Yorahii pulled him away felt like his arm being ripped out of its socket. Fire burned in Oriné's shoulder, but his cry of pain and surprise turned into a grunt of determination. With some effort, he pulled himself up against the beast's side, taking a firm hold and pulling out his sword. Then he began to climb.

By the time he'd reached the Yorahii's back, the creature knew something was wrong. It stopped charging and began bucking, trying to shake Oriné loose, but its armor made it inflexible. All it could manage was a series of vicious hops and some weak kicks.

He found his way to the ridge along its back, where it turned in its sleep to face the wind. His groping fingers searched for a weak spot and found it: a line of soft, unarmored flesh just under the ridge. He pulled it back as hard as he could with one hand, and with his other hand slid his blade into it, giving it a shove when he encountered the hard resistance of bone.

The effect was immediate. The Yorahii let out a piteous moan and collapsed onto its belly, rear legs splayed out in the sand. It tried to pull itself away from danger using its forelegs. With it immobilized, Oriné hurried along its back towards its head and repeated the action at its neck. Its whole body went limp. It laid there, breathing slowed and eyes half-lidded, until it succumbed to its wounds.

Oriné felt a pang of remorse. It wasn't an honorable way to die, nor was it quick. He imagined himself lying in the sun, unable to move, his hearts and lungs continuing on reflex for only a little while more. It sent a shiver through him, and he suddenly wished there was a way to speed the beast along its death. But his weapons were too weak.

With care, he slid off its back and dropped into the sand. He was unsteady for a moment and had to lean against the Yorahii as it gave its death rattle. On the other side of the camp he could see his brothers in arms swarming over the other Yorahii, one scrambling up its side much like he had done and shoving his sword between its plates. It, too, cried out and fell.

Yara ran over to Oriné and embraced him, laughing.

"That was the craziest thing I've ever seen," he said.

Oriné smiled as Yara pulled away. "You can name the maneuver after me, then."

They took a moment to study the massive corpse, and Oriné glanced around at the damage the pair had caused. One tent had been completely destroyed, two others collapsed but intact. Judging by the debris, they had trampled many of the spare supplies and weapons stored around the camp.

Yara clicked his mandibles. "What would drive them to come here?"

"Rtas said this morning that it could be desperation." Despite himself, Oriné reached out and ran a hand over its hide. "Something is changing for them. Maybe some cataclysm or another driving them into unfamiliar lands."

"It's not a good omen," said Yara.

Oriné agreed, but shouting grabbed their attention. They were being summoned back to the main group. Olah was waiting, and as Oriné approached many of his fellows bumped his shoulder in admiration.

"A brilliant insight," said Olah. "You've brought honor to your family today, 'Fulsamee."

 _'Fulsamee_. Oriné had not yet earned his military honorific. For Olah to use it was a sign of great respect. He searched for something to say, but he couldn't find the words. Instead, he saluted and bowed.

That night, he was treated to a feast of fresh meat and whatever had survived the attack. He fell asleep by the fire, neither thirsty nor hungry for the first time in his memory.

* * *

**Seven months ago.**

As time wore on, the Sangheili came to understand and respect Jisako. They knew what to expect for weather, predator activity, where to search for water or building materials. They settled into a routine: hunting parties every other day, morning prayer, nightly guard, regular maintenance of their equipment, and constant drilling and exercise. It served to prepare them for the unexpected, as well as give them a pattern of living that eased their solitude. At no point did they see any sign of other Sangheili.

Normalcy came at a high cost, however. One of them had been killed in the dunes, part of a scouting mission that had been the first to run across the Yorahii. He had been gored by their claws, and though the rest of the party had managed to drive the creature off, it was too late. He was honored by the Sangheili as a true warrior.

More recently, their appointed leader, the Field Master's son, had left for the badlands. He was convinced he could demonstrate his worth by sojourning alone for a month. After the time for his return had come and gone, a party had been sent to find him. They found his corpse in the foothills, desiccated by the elements, partially eaten by scavengers. He had died of dehydration, apparently unable to find a water source.

Not only had his original aim been foolish, but his death had been dishonorable. True warriors did not succumb to the elements, and they certainly did not venture out alone to settle their own pride. When the Covenant came to bring them home, his name would go unanswered at roll call and be absent from the list of honored dead. His death would go unreported to his family. Instead, his spirit would be left here on Jisako, a ghost left behind to haunt the harsh planet. He would never know the comfort of the Great Journey.

Tonight, if his spirit lingered around the camp, it was angry. The wind howled and thrashed at the tents. At the first sign of a coming storm, the Sangheili had reinforced their shelters and laid out rain catchers. It burned to drink the rain, but their stomachs could handle it, and they needed the water.

But this was no ordinary rainstorm. The fierce wind was broken by regular explosions of thunder. Lightning struck near and far. When it ended, the Sangheili would be able to go out and find small pits of glass in the sand. Baubles, to remember their time here.

Not that they would ever forget.

Oriné's tent, which was meant for five occupants, had only four: Olah 'Seroum, Rtas 'Vadum, Yara 'Orgal, and Oriné himself. The fifth, Irut 'Yonom, was one of the night's sentries. The sympathy Oriné felt for him was surpassed only by his relief at not being outside with him.

The noise kept them from sleeping. Nature's symphony might have been awesome to behold, but it also meant predators could sneak up on them. It was unlikely in this storm, but Oriné vividly remembered the flying scavengers from the badlands and couldn’t shake the image of one tearing its way through the canvas to feast on the sleeping Sangheili.

So they talked. Rtas turned out to be a persistent conversationalist. Oriné couldn't tell if it was a genuine desire to get to know his comrades, or if he was trying to bore them to sleep.

He finished telling the story of how he grew up on his family's keep far outside the capital city of Sanghelios. In the past, he explained, it was considered its own sovereign state, but after the War of Fortune they had joined the rest of the Sangheili under a united meritocracy. Some areas still clung to their ancient roots, like Yermo and some of the colonies, but by and large the Sangheili had moved past such barbaric traditions.

"It must be nice," murmured Yara, "to be the son of a Fleet Master."

"Not really," said Rtas. "He's away a lot, coordinating ships for the Covenant. He had to get special permission from the Imperial Admiral to return home and prepare me for my jotun on Jisako. We trained using _rudhai_ that have been passed down throughout my family."

"Still," said Yara, "he could at least do that. My father is so busy with Council business that I trained with a hired warrior. So disgraceful, using the tools and skills of another family. If there is an 'Orgal technique, I don't know it."

Oriné grumbled. "To have such problems."

"How did you train, Oriné?"

"With my own father," he said. "Constant drills, surprise bouts in our home, all done with wood staves he had made by an artisan." The same staves, he remembered, that his brother had used, and as a hatchling Oriné had watched them train in jealous secrecy. Then the time had come for him to learn, but rather than be as intimate and profound as he had first imagined, it had been hard. He scowled.

"Your family sounds quite rustic," said Rtas.

In an instant, Oriné turned from sour to defensive. "My father was a Ship Commander before he retired, and he served in the war to bring the Jiralhanae into the Covenant. My family is as proud and noble as either of yours."

Rtas chuckled lightly, and Oriné realized he'd been tricked into thinking well of his family. He pulled his blanket a little further up, trying to hide the blush spreading up his neck.

"Where do you live?" asked Rtas.

"Lomak," Oriné answered off-hand. Rtas moved slightly to look at him.

"Really? My family has an estate in Sorlal."

Yara nodded. "As does mine. It's close to the Council chambers on Sanghelios." He angled his head. "What about you, Olah? Where is home?"

Olah grunted and continued staring at the ceiling in silence. He had avoided speaking so far, and he did not seem inspired to do so now. His silence was contagious, however, as the other three Sangheili quieted down.

For a while Oriné suspected his comrades had fallen asleep, when Rtas spoke again.

"I miss my father."

Oriné nodded. "I miss my family, too. My sister, especially."

"You have a sister? Is she beautiful?

He frowned. "She's my twin."

"So, no," said Yara. Oriné reached over and punched him in the arm.

But Rtas's curiosity had been piqued. "A twin sister? That's very rare."

"Not as rare as your green eyes."

Rtas ignored him. "In the colonies, they say that twins share a single soul. One takes the good aspects and the other the bad." He hummed. "Which would you be, Oriné?"

Yara gave a barking laugh. "Our friend 'Fulsam here is a model warrior. He says his prayers, does his exercises, and has no vice or weakness to speak of. I can only assume his sister drinks heavily, spews heresies wherever she goes, and robs the elderly for money."

Oriné punched him again, harder this time, and was satisfied to hear a grunt of pain. "She is calm, passionate, and nurturing. She's destined for the priesthood."

"Ah," said Yara, rubbing his shoulder, "but not for the Dai-mor? She _is_ ugly, then."

The fight started then, while Rtas laughed and urged them on. Several minutes later the two collapsed back onto their bedding, suitably exhausted and bruised. Still trying to catch his breath, Oriné rolled onto his side to face Olah.

"And you, Olah? What's your family like?"

He didn't respond, only rolled to put his back to Oriné. The confused Sangheili glanced around, seeing Yara just as puzzled, but there was a stricken look on Rtas's face.

Not another word was spoken that night. The storm outside abated, allowing the four to drift off into fitful sleep. The next morning, just after prayers and breakfast and while Oriné geared up for an outing, Rtas came up beside him.

"You shouldn't speak of family to Olah," he said quietly.

Oriné glanced around. Olah was far back in camp, distracted by other matters. He was the favorite among the Sangheili to become their new leader.

"Why is that? Is he ashamed of them?" Oriné had heard of such things before.

Rtas shook his head. "His family is dead. They were killed when he was just a hatchling. He's an orphan."

* * *

**Present day.**

The hunting party was almost ready to venture out. It would be sparsely equipped, and not just because the Yorahii from yesterday had destroyed many of their weapons. The two carcasses lay where they had fallen, and the Sangheili remaining behind needed all the blades they could find to cut the meat into manageable pieces. This would be a spears-only outing.

Oriné, Yara, and Rtas were all in the group. They stood with the rest in a ragged half-circle, waiting while the party leader decided where they would search today. Oriné's shoulder still hurt from riding the Yorahii, but he ignored the pain.

They did not speak. In fact, there was very little noise except for the distant whimper of the Sangheili who had been trampled. He had many broken bones and contusions, along with extensive internal injuries. The Sangheili in the camp had done their best to make him comfortable and patch up the most obvious issues, but there was nothing more to do. He needed specialized medical attention, and there were no healers anywhere on the planet.

A long time ago, before the Covenant was formed, Oriné knew that the Sangheili had scorned the idea of healing. If a warrior could not recover on his own, then he was not strong enough to be worthy of survival. Those that practiced medicine were outcasts, considered to be less than a person. Over time, as their technology grew and they became a space-faring culture, the Sangheili had revised that outlook, and now welcomed the healing arts as a vital aspect of honorable combat. 

As the Prophets commanded, "Sangheili lives are not their own to give. They must be lived wisely and to the fullest, in pursuit of the Great Journey." 

Some colonies and even a few holds on Sanghelios still clung to the old ways. But those were places of kaidons and superstitions. Oriné was glad not to know them.

As their party leader made his decision, an unfamiliar humming filled the air. Immediately Oriné thought back to the flying creatures he'd encountered early in their year here, and he signaled for everyone to fall back. They formed a circle in the center of camp, around the tent that held the trampled Sangheili and the one that had been cut by the Yorahii—not as serious a wound, but enough to keep him bedridden.

Searching for the source of the noise, Oriné realized he was familiar with it. In fact, it did not sound like a scavenger or a predator, but rather like...

"Spirits!" shouted Rtas, pointing up.

Fork-shaped dropships passed by overhead, five in total. One was descending towards them.

It was the end of their year on Jisako. 

The Sangheili assembled into neat rows with Olah at the fore, standing at attention with whatever they had in hand, as the Spirit descended. A Sangheili Major in crimson armor stepped out of the dropship, gripping a lumidex in his claws. Without preamble, he began calling out names, to which the Sangheili answered. The wounded were brought out of the tent to answer the call, though they weren't required to stand.

When the name of the Sangheili killed by a predator was called, Olah stood straighter. "Among the honored dead," he said. The Major made a note.

When the name of the Sangheili dead from exposure was called, no one spoke.

At last, the Elite thumbed off the lumidex and looked up, gazing across the faces assembled. "I do not see the faces of children, as I did when you were left here," he said, voice booming over the crowd. Oriné started. This was the Minor from a year ago? "Instead I see warriors. Adults who have earned their names with their blood. Your families will be honored to know you as you are now."

With that, he motioned for them to board the Spirit. There was no cheering from the Sangheili as they filed forward. They were calm and disciplined. A healer was there to help carry the wounded on board.

Oriné wasn't sure how he was supposed to feel, being a warrior now. He had expected it would be an uplifting experience. Maturity as metamorphosis. Instead, he felt tired, his knees felt weak, not like his skin would crack and slough off him to reveal someone else.

He stayed awake as the ships rose off the surface, and he thought he could make out the twinkle of the other Spirits, either bringing Jisako survivors back or depositing the new arrivals on the surface. The dropships brought them to a corvette in orbit, which would bring them back to Sanghelios. He was guided to a bunk and fell into it, immediately falling asleep on the cool bedding.

Later, he would learn that of the two wounded Sangheili brought up from the surface, the one who had been trampled—Irut 'Yonom—died of his wounds. It was an honorable death.


	2. The Covenant

**Chapter Two:** The Covenant

The courtyard was full of Sangheili, all mothers and fathers anxiously awaiting the arrival of the Spirits. The day was warm, but a cool breeze blew in from the bay, lightly tugging at the collection of kaftans, robes, and sarongs. Wealthier families had vehicles with them, but many had simply walked.

"I wonder if I'll recognize him."

Alsa Sam gave her mate a sidelong glance, unwilling to take her eyes off the sky for even a moment. "He's your son. Of course you'll recognize him."

"It's not something I'd expect you to understand," said Orita 'Fulsamee, only half meaning it. She glared at him anyway. "When I came back from Jisako, I felt so different. Like I didn't belong to the world anymore. I was a warrior, then, with a warrior's dreams and a warrior's desires."

She resisted the urge to cuff him on the neck. It would be improper in public, though she knew he wouldn't hold it against her. Loving rebukes came easy to her, and Orita tended to attract them.

A shifting pain in her belly made her wince. He gave her a knowing look, but she waved off his concern.

"Look," she said, pointing up. "Here they come."

The Spirits were on final descent into the capital. The voices of the families around them rose in volume as they anticipated the return of their children.

No, she corrected herself. They were not children anymore. With this trial behind them, they were adults. They had taken the first step on the path to becoming warriors in the Holy Covenant, and there would be no going back.

For a moment, she felt a different kind of pain, this time deep in her chest. This pain she kept from her mate.

The polished craft settled to the platform, engines humming. A plasma turret hung beneath it. At the moment it was inert, but even if it had been tracking the crowd, Alsa would not have flinched. Neither would anyone else. The Sangheili were a martial culture. Even though she would never see a battlefield, fighting was in her blood. She had been trained in the basics of warfare by her own mother and father.

As the doors opened, allowing the Sangheili within to file out, Orita leaned in closer to his mate. "Fulsa should be here."

"She wanted to stay behind and make our home presentable for her beloved brother."

"It was presentable enough."

She chuckled. "If you think you can dissuade her, please try. I understand I'm due some kind of compensation if my mate dies in honorable combat."

When she glanced at him, he was smiling. "I'll leave it to Oriné, then. He has all that youthful energy to waste until he goes off to war college."

"Since you brought it up, have you heard?"

"Yes. He'll have his chance. I don't doubt he'll be accepted. I went myself, you know."

Alsa remembered it well. She said nothing.

The Sangheili had cleared the Spirits, which had risen again to rejoin their mother ship. From where she was standing, Alsa couldn't make out individuals. They were all garbed in the same green kaftan belted by a blue sash. She frowned, remembering the care with which she and Orita had prepared Oriné's formal robes. But when their oldest had gone through the trial before, Orita warned her that clothes were the first thing to be destroyed and used for raw materials on Jisako.

There were noticeably fewer Sangheili debarking from the dropships than there had been embarking a year ago. Anxiety rippled through her and out among the crowd. The names of the dead and the living were not revealed ahead of the novitiates' arrival. Some families would be going home smaller.

She could not imagine being one of them.

Three blooded warriors stood nearby, one in the crimson armor of a Major and the others dressed in Minor cobalt. They were not, it seemed, guiding the dozens of new arrivals. That fell on a few of the novitiates themselves, standing out in front of the others. Their sashes were red instead of blue.

Leaders, then, from among those who survived.

They called for attention, the others falling into line. Some sort of speech, a few gestures, and in a moment all the Sangheili were marching towards the assembled witnesses.

As they neared, discipline cracked. When they saw people they knew, the new arrivals nodded or, in a few cases, waved outright. The crowd proved the breaking force: alone and in pairs, they scattered into the throngs, searching for their loved ones.

Alsa became aware of a young male approaching, looking pensive. It took her a full three heartbeats to realize it was Oriné. The hard angles of adulthood no longer stood at odds with the soft skin of a child. He was rougher now, cleaned and rested since he departed Jisako, but different for the experience.

Gods. She had not recognized her own son.

He stopped and tried to give a formal bow. Alsa could not wait any longer. She rushed forward, put her hands on the sides of his neck, and pressed her forehead against his.

"Oh, my son," she said, nictitating to clear away tears. "You're home."

He nodded. She felt the blood rush to his neck, flushing it purple in embarrassment, but she would not give up this moment. Not yet.

A hand fell on her shoulder and carefully drew her away. "You'll embarrass the poor boy, my love," said Orita. "Besides, I want to see the warrior my son has become."

He made a show of sizing up Oriné and offering a salute, but it was not long before he too was touching foreheads. Four tours of duty, she mused, wounded in honorable combat, and still Ship Commander 'Fulsamee was hopelessly emotional.

"Don't mind your father," said Alsa, cutting into a budding discussion of the details of Oriné's lost year. "He was like this when your brother came home, as well."

A flicker of regret passed over Oriné's features. "Orna came home with a leader's belt," he muttered, picking at his blue sash with a claw.

Orita clicked his mandibles. "Your brother was a leader, yes, but that was not what made us proud. It was that he came home a warrior, having learned much and taught others to better themselves. True warriors understand that rank is not everything, even in the Covenant." He burst into a wide grin. "Take myself, for example. Hot-blooded, poor diplomatic skills, trouble with authority, yet I commanded a vessel."

His wry humor was disarming. Oriné looked a little less ashamed, and even Alsa found herself laughing. "Come," she said, "let's go home. Your sister is waiting."

Oriné winced. "Not with weapon drawn, I hope."

* * *

The capital of Sanghelios was broken into seven districts, each named for an ancient and distinguished warrior. Oriné had lived in Lomak his entire life, and he had never learned that part of its history. It had not bothered him, but as he walked the streets with his parents for the first time in over a year, he realized it was something he should know.

It was a deficiency that could be rectified later. For now, he was home again and seeing the city with new eyes. The eyes of a warrior.

Lomak was one of the older areas, the lesser of the three central districts that were ringed by the other four. Its age afforded it a certain reverence by the Sangheili, though its origins were murky at best. Beginning life as a mercantile outpost was a dubious honor. Trade was considered by many Sangheili to be a necessary evil, devoid of honor to be gained in its pursuit.

But early in the days of the space-faring Sangheili Empire, when it was discovered that interplanetary trade was invaluable, Lomak prospered, becoming the site of the First Imperial Academy and an important stopping point for all vessels. At the same time, the Sorlal and A'mov districts sprouted as residences for the merchant kings and the local seat of government, respectively. Lomak remained the place of business, where the shops and warehouses were kept.

Then after centuries of prosperity came the war with the Prophets. Lomak's value as the largest trade port on Sanghelios made it a natural rallying point for the Sangheili fleets, which up to that point had been divided based on ancient family lines. In the face of the overwhelming danger brought about by the Prophets and their Forerunner Dreadnought they chose to unite around the First Imperial Academy.

Years of fighting ended in a stalemate, but only after both sides had exacted a heavy toll from each other. Lomak fell under siege, suffering the destruction of much of its infrastructure, as well as the academy itself. They feared their mutual annihilation: the Sangheili by the power of the Forerunner Dreadnought, and the Prophets by the martial prowess of the Sangheili Empire. They shared a mutual faith in the Forerunners, differing only in their interpretation of how their relics should be used. The war only ended when the Prophets revealed to the Sangheili the truth of the Great Journey.

So was formed the Holy Covenant, as Oriné had learned in seminary. There were murals all across Lomak that celebrated the end of the War of Fortune, including inside the Council chambers built on the ruins of the First Imperial Academy. The first decree of the Councilors had been to dub Lomak, Sorlal, and A'mov the capital of Sanghelios. The city expanded quickly then, aided by the technological wonders adapted from Forerunner artifacts, possible thanks to the union with the Prophets.

But Oriné was fixated on the idea of the First Imperial Academy. It had been lost, but after the formation of the Covenant the Council chose to create a successor school, the Sanghelios Prime War College. It was a highly-rated school with a strong tradition. Many families and clans prided themselves on having their sons become proper warriors under the tutelage of the masters and magisters there.

Oriné had his sights set on a still greater prize, however.

* * *

The merchant's house in which the 'Fulsam family lived was three stories tall, curved and oblong like a beetle shell. The first floor was meant for trading purposes. Half was a reception and demonstration area where the owners—in this case Oriné's mother and father—could entertain potential customers. The other half was for the storage of small to mid-sized orders. Their business was comparatively minor, just something to bolster Orita's veteran pension, but they had a small and loyal customer base. For the most part, they sold items made by local artisans that were meant as decorations: furniture, woven tapestries, even the occasional minor relic.

The second floor held the ancestral altar and their sleeping quarters, as well as space for them to spend time together and eat as a private family. Oriné imagined little had changed in the time he had been away.

On the third floor was the common area where they could host guests. There was a more public version of the ancestral altar, as well as a sizeable balcony area where friends and family could gather. The view was not spectacular, surrounded as they were by homes and stores of roughly the same size, but their guests had always described it as charming.

As Oriné walked into his home, he could immediately tell things had changed. The differences were subtle, but they stood out in his mind as significant: new items on display, the chairs rearranged. A Jiralhanae pelt was spread on the floor, a trophy from his father's time at war. Oriné could remember the few times it had caused them trouble, namely when Jiralhanae passing through lumbered in to experience Sangheili hospitality. However, it had been his father's right as the victor of single combat, and many Sangheili approved of the decoration.

The gravity lift was at the center of the house, and he hastened to it. The sensation of a thousand invisible hands lifting him up made his skin tingle. He made a stop on the middle floor long enough to pay his respects to his ancestors before continuing to the top, followed closely by his parents.

He turned towards a shriek of glee, a lithe and narrow figure bounding towards him from the balcony. He barely had enough time to set his feet before she collided with him, tangling her arms around him and pressing her forehead to his.

"Brother!" said Fulsa. "You're home!"

He laughed. The veneer of adulthood, which he had carefully maintained since his arrival, cracked and vanished under his sister's affectionate assault.

She stepped back, and he saw that she had also changed. She had grown taller in his absence, reaching his own height. Her hips were somewhat more rounded, filling out the robes of a seminary graduate. Females were required to complete their education, while males were withdrawn early to begin martial training. 

Fulsa was always welcome at training when she completed her studies. However, her dedication to learning more about scripture and doctrine gave her a clarity of purpose. She had spent little time with anything more than basic self-defense, and her studies clearly amounted to a great deal.

Oriné was proud of her.

"I might believe you were an adult now," he said, quirking his mandible, "if I didn't know that some people never grow up."

Fulsa put her hands on her hips. "The desert has done nothing to improve your personality. But it couldn't be done even if the Forerunners themselves walked back along the Path and commanded it."

Alsa tutted behind them. "Don't spar, you two. You've both only just come home. It won't be long before you're both gone again. Enjoy each other's company while you can."

"Speaking of," rumbled Orita, "when is your naming ceremony, Oriné?"

Oriné clicked his mandibles. "The end of the week. I was invited by Rtas 'Vadum to attend as a guest of his father's. My entire jotun will be there, actually."

A gasp of delight came from Fulsa. "The Fleet Master's son? Will we all be allowed to attend? I've heard the senior priestesses of the Coven attend such high class events. Will I be able to meet them before I leave for High Charity?"

Before he could answer her, his mother leaned in. "What will you be expected to wear?"

"Something like this, I suppose." He plucked at his kaftan. "We'll be awarded our armor at the ceremony."

She hummed, giving his current wardrobe greater scrutiny, trying to decide if it was acceptable to wear to a Fleet Master's banquet. 

Orita nodded his approval. "Then there will be enough time for you to take your qualifications."

Oriné's hearts fluttered. "Qualifications?"

"I spoke to one of my old instructors about you, and he agreed to invite you to qualify for Ardent Shield. Between his recommendation and my legacy, I've secured you a duel. In two days' time, you will have your chance to prove you're worthy to attend the Covenant's finest war college."

He worked his mandibles, trying to speak. Ardent Shield was the premier academy in the Holy Covenant. To even be considered for acceptance, a young warrior would have to endure a harsh one-on-one duel with a representative of the college. That opportunity only came after securing an invite from a magister within Ardent Shield.

Oriné had hoped his father's position as a legacy would allow him access, as it had for Orna, but there was never a guarantee.

At a loss for words, he settled for a deep bow. "I won't disappoint you," he managed to say.

Orita only grinned and clapped a meaty hand on his son's shoulder. "You won't," he said. "You're as fine a warrior as I could make you, and I make the best. Just ask your brother."

Oriné righted himself. "Do you think I'll be able to speak to Orna before I leave?"

"Perhaps," said Alsa, "but we haven't heard a word ourselves for years, ever since he left for Ardent Shield. News comes back to us, however." A smile tugged at the corners of her mandibles. "Your brother has been made a Ship Commander."

Orita beamed. "At half the age I did it! He's a natural leader."

Fulsa, mistaking her brother's quiet for unease, gave him a light shove. "Don't be self-conscious. You'll be just as good a warrior as Orna. The two of you will see the Covenant into a new age of light and prosperity."

He nodded at her, but he hadn't been thinking about slights. Rather, he was thinking about stations. Most Sangheili who attained the rank of Ship Commander were invited to join the Zealots, a military order that welcomed the most skilled warriors and leaders of the Sangheili. There was typically a public ceremony involved called the Ascendance, and the Zealot's family was meant to attend.

And yet Orna's family had not seen him for years. Oriné wracked his brain, thinking of reasons. Not  _ every _ Ship Commander or Field Commander was invited into the Zealots. Some, like his father, were promoted to the rank of Ultra. But Orna's desire had always been leadership, and the order of the Zealots commanded significant influence, both on the battlefield and in politics.

So it was much more likely Orna had become a Zealot, but that left only two options: his family had not been invited to his Ascendance, or he had not received an Ascendance. Unless Orna was deliberately cutting ties with his family—something Oriné could not imagine him doing—that left only the lack of Ascendance.

The thought gave Oriné pause. By all accounts, the war against the humans was going well. The Hierarchs and the High Council decreed they were heretics and blasphemers who polluted Forerunner ruins with their presence. A substantial amount of the Covenant armada—almost half its strength, at last rumor—had been tasked with exterminating them. From what Oriné heard, they were not particularly difficult opponents.

But if that were the case, there should have been no problem recalling Orna home for his Ascendance. The only times Oriné understood an Ascendance to be delayed or canceled was if the recipient was too deep in combat to be withdrawn.

Were the humans more of a threat than Oriné understood? Was Orna's life in danger?

He looked for signs of concern on his parents' faces. He thought his father looked distressed, but Oriné realized his attention was on his mother. She appeared flushed, her eyes unfocused.

Fulsa noticed, too. "Are you all right, mother?"

"Fine." She nictitated, apparently coming back to the present. She took in the worried faces of her family and smiled. "I'm fine. Just a little light-headed from the excitement of having my children home. It will pass.

"Now. Shall we celebrate the occasion?"

* * *

That night, after a celebratory dinner and while Oriné and Fulsa stayed on the balcony and sparred—Oriné wanting to show off his prowess and Fulsa wanting to learn—Alsa Sam sat on the edge of her bed in the dark, rubbing her belly. Orita, reclined beside her, reached out and ran his clawed hand lightly over her back. She cooed at the sensation.

"We should tell them," he said.

She hummed.

"You act as if they won't be thrilled. They know the value of family."

Again, she hummed.

He withdrew her hand, but when she protested he gave her a stern look. "Speak to me."

She sighed. "There's something wrong."

In an instant, he was sitting up. "What is it? Do you need a healer?"

"No, not like that. With the Covenant, I mean." She rolled to face him. "You feel it too, don't you, love? When we were young it was different. There was war, yes, always war. But we did it to absorb others into the Forerunners' embrace. This war with the humans is just... extermination."

She half-expected a rebuke for speaking of such things, but Orita only pulled her close and held her. Even after so many years, he was just as powerful and calming a presence as he had always been. She nestled herself into his arms.

"Orna is safe," he murmured. "As Oriné will be when he is deployed. Our cause is righteous, our might undeniable. Other species have been cleansed before. Don't let doubt worry down your defenses."

"You don't really believe that."

It wasn't a question.

"It's... not so simple a thing to believe, no." He paused. "I spoke with my old friend, 'Kobota. You remember him?"

She couldn't resist a chuckle. "Of course I remember him. I'm surprised he still speaks to you."

"It was a long time ago. I'm sure he's forgotten." She heard the smile in his voice, and heard as it faded. "The humans fight better than the Jiralhanae did, despite their disadvantages. They are intelligent and skilled, especially when it comes down to a ground contest. On the surface, to hear the Field Masters tell it, they are near our equals. There are even murmurs in the Council that perhaps we were too hasty in declaring a crusade. They could make valuable allies."

She rolled again to make herself more comfortable. "Is there a chance the war could come here?"

Rumbling came from deep in his chest, a sensation she felt rather than heard. He was laughing. "No chance of that, my love. We shall be safe here."

She twisted in his embrace to face him, brushing the tips of her mandibles against his. Gently he pulled her down into the gel cushion, his clawed hand again finding her back.

* * *

The morning was bright and hot. The practice yard had been cleared of all the obstacles that usually littered it, silent for the lack of the buzzing holo-drones that could be used to simulate opponents. Oriné was alone, garbed in a sarong, facing off against a single opponent. A short distance away on a shaded observation platform stood his father, watching carefully.

This, thought Oriné, was when Sangheili hospitality melted away. There were no kind words to be said, no mercy or love. Only a bare dirt battlefield on which to prove himself.

He clutched his  _ malier _ , a metal rod that served as a practice weapon. His opponent was similarly armed and armored — that is to say, barely at all. It was a challenge in the most traditional sense, the sort that was fought with the most primal of skills and weapons.

His opponent shifted his weight and lunged. No words shared between them. Only combat.

Oriné stepped back, pivoting on his left foot and looking like he would strike high first. His opponent swung low, but Oriné was fast, dipping the tip of his weapon to catch and redirect the blow. Before he could make his own strike, his opponent was in a defensive stance, sliding to Oriné's right.

He swung the  _ malier _ in a sideways arc to make his opponent duck, but instead his opponent fell into the staff, blocking it with his own and extending the arm of the lower grip, bringing the lower half of the weapon up towards Oriné's face. He leaned back, feeling the rush of air as the tip just missed his mandibles, then brought his  _ malier _ up and parallel to the ground to block the second strike: a vertical swing from high.

He pushed his opponent's weapon away, twirling his  _ malier _ to change his grip. It was fast becoming a dance of carefully practiced defense. Here and there Oriné's opponent would attack with something new, a maneuver garnered from years spent in battle. Oriné had no such advantage of experience, only knowledge of the basics tempered by his time on Jisako. The simplest forms of defense, however, were enough to keep even a seasoned veteran at bay.

Somewhere in the center of his mind, where the tempest of combat was still and peaceful, he acknowledged the simple truth: he had been taught well. For all the grief he had ever given his father, Orita was both a good soldier and a good teacher. And Oriné, to his credit, had been a good student.

With his subconscious fears subsiding, Oriné began to trust in his abilities. He put himself on the offensive, making his opponent move and block to avoid being struck. Attacking required a stable stance, and if Oriné could keep his opponent moving… 

But it didn't last. For all his skill, Oriné's lack of experience showed through. He wasn't used to the  _ malier _ and used it like his spear on Jisako. His opponent was more familiar with its versatility.

So when Oriné feinted left intending to strike right, his opponent saw through the feint to press the middle of his staff to Oriné's neck and curved his foot behind Oriné's leg. Levered, Oriné fell to the dirt, his opponent on top of him, pressing down on his throat.

The pressure persisted for just a moment, long enough for Oriné to think he was going to die, before his opponent removed his  _ malier _ and stood. Oriné felt a burning shame. 

He had fallen. He had failed.

Footfalls crunched over the dirt as Orita approached. "Well?"

The warrior brushed himself off. "Acceptable," he said. "Your son fought well and has mastered the basic defense forms. Several of his thrusts were also excellent, though he obviously wants for experience."

Oriné pushed himself up. He stared at the warrior, uncomprehending. "But... I lost."

"The advantage of youth, young one, is that you are allowed to lose," he replied. "If you lose often, and you learn from your failures, there will never come a time when you're a blooded warrior that you face the unknown. You won't be frightened of loss and death, and can even turn such things to your advantage. Those are the warriors that are so highly valued by the Covenant. They are the ones who are trained at Ardent Shield."

He looked back to Orita. "We will take him. His naming ceremony is tomorrow, correct? Have him ready to travel a week from then. There's a good crop of candidates from Sanghelios this year, so he won't be alone."

Orita nodded and offered a salute. Oriné, still not yet a full warrior until he had been given his suffix, gave a deep bow. The warrior returned the salute, turned, and marched off the field.

As they walked home together, Orita took the  _ malier _ from Oriné and admired it.

"You fought well, my son. You should be proud."

"I hoped to win."

"I've never heard of anyone who actually won their qualification," said Orita. "I certainly didn't. And yet I was asked to attend Ardent Shield. Of course," he added, handing the  _ malier _ back, "it is said they are more lenient with legacy families."

Oriné felt a fire stir in his hearts, the same he felt before his duel. "I'll prove I'm as worthy as anyone."

"That's the spirit."

* * *

The sun was just setting over Lomak's harbor, its brilliance dancing in the waters. As the light faded, it became possible to make out its companions: Fied and Joori, smaller stars trapped in a much closer orbit while the larger Urs siphoned their stellar winds and energy in an eons-long process.

High above the Great Plaza hung one of the moons of Sanghelios, Suban, while Qikost lingered on the horizon opposite the vanishing sun. In their shadows a deeply important ceremony was underway. The jotuns from Sanghelios were to be given a great honor tonight, the first of many to come, as hoped their families.

Oriné arrived with his parents and sister but quickly abandoned them to join his friends. He found Yara among them, and they barely began a conversation before being interrupted. Attendants ushered them around to the back of a stage that had been assembled over the course of the day by Unggoy workers. They still lingered, moving things here and there, while the Sangheili bustled back and forth.

An enclosure of hastily assembled crates and curtains found Rtas 'Vadum waiting, dressed in brilliant emerald armor. With him was Olah 'Seroum, similarly dressed but looking much sterner. He wore around his waist the same crimson sash as when they stepped off the Spirits just days before. The sight of it made the Sangheili straighten and abandon their idle discussion.

"Your ears," growled Olah. "In these crates are your combat harnesses. We will distribute them now, before the ceremony, and you will be expected to wear them throughout the night. Pay attention, because your name has been etched into the breast."

Their names were called and each Sangheili stepped forward in turn. They stripped off whatever family clothes they wore to don a dermal suit and the emerald pieces of armor that attached to it. Rtas and Olah helped, showing them where the various fasteners and magnets were located, though as warriors they would be expected to put on their own armor.

When Oriné's name was called, he stepped forward, shrugging out of the robe and lungi he wore. The dermal suit was skintight, appropriately enough, and he began to attach the actual armor. It didn't cover everything, but the dermal suit could deflect some energy from incoming attacks. Besides which, a proper suit of Sangheili armor would have a personal energy shield.

As it was, this was the armor of a Sangheili Tyro. While tonight they would become warriors, expected to lay down their lives in pursuit of the Great Journey if necessary, they still had much to learn and would spend their time as Tyros at a war college. Once they had completed their curricula, they would commence as Minors and Majors, fit to fight the Covenant's enemies.

Until then, however, their armor would have no shielding or active camouflage.

Oriné slipped his feet into the boots, wriggling his two large toes into position and giving them a practice flex. They fastened along a seam that ran the length of his calf. Next came the plates that guarded his thighs and had magnetic holster points for his weapons. An armored belt clung to his waist with holding points for grenades and lumidexes.

Then he had to assemble his thoracic cage, by far the hardest. It protected his torso, covering his back and wrapping around to his front. Rtas helped him to settle it properly and fasten it at the front; it was partially flexible as well, letting him get his arms through the holes easily. Pulling on the bracers was easy enough. They clamped around his forearms, allowing his wrists their full range of motion. His shoulder pauldrons went on next.

Finally, he fastened his four mandible guards to a harness that looped over his head, and then settled his helmet down on top of it. Hologram generators rested on the brim, tiny nubs that would track his eyes and beam information about his armor's status directly into them. At the moment the system was deactivated, and he was thankful for that. He had heard from older warriors that it took great effort to adjust to it, and at the moment he wanted all his wits about him.

As the others got dressed, Oriné admired his reflection in the polished surface of a crate. One detail in particular caught his eye, letters vertically etched into the breast of his thoracic cage, trailing down along the gap in the center:

'Fulsamee.

_ 'Fulsamee _ . His name with a warrior's suffix. He shivered.

Once everyone was prepared, Olah called for their attention again. This time, when they stood straight and gave him their undivided attention, it felt like all the disparate elements of the universe had aligned. Everything was in order. Everything was right.

"Follow me," said Olah. He strode past them towards the stage. They fell into a column, joined by other jotuns as they marched. Yara was opposite Oriné and gave him a furtive tap with his armored elbow. Oriné spared his friend a grin before they came out into plain view of the crowd.

Somewhere out there was Oriné's family, his mother and father and sister. But there were no cheers, only a strong and disciplined silence. The audience stood at attention. On the stage, waiting and watching as they marched into place, was a Zealot. His gold armor gleamed below the Great Plaza's lights, demanding the respect of all who gazed upon it. Oriné had grown used to the sight—his father wore a set of armor much like it, decorated with honor markings—but it was the additional detail that captured his attention. A cape hung from his shoulders, shimmering violet with silver detail.

This was Fleet Master Lyos 'Vadumee. Rtas's father.

The Sangheili stopped their march, organized themselves into lines and turned as one to face the Fleet Master. Beyond him, Oriné made out the glimmer of other armored figures in the audience, many gold and silver. One of them would be his father.

'Vadumee cleared his throat and turned to face the audience. Despite the absolute silence, he still wore a vocal amplifier somewhere about his head. His voice boomed over the Great Plaza, echoed off the buildings at its perimeter.

"Tonight," he said, "in the Ninth Age of Reclamation of our Covenant, we honor those who will come after us. These young warriors, whom we have raised and guided, shall defend our Holy Covenant and, gods willing, see the beginning of the Great Journey in their lifetimes. Soon they shall each go forth to learn our sacred ways, the arts of combat, and become the warriors that will crush our enemies.

"Our duty, first and foremost, is to the Covenant. It is what brought an end to the senseless war with the Prophets. It is what guarantees us a place on the Path. It is what illuminates our lives and promises us greater destinies along the Great Journey. To become part of this Covenant, we must take an oath according to our station, all without exception, on the blood of our fathers and even on our sons. To our dying breath, we uphold this oath, sworn years ago to the Prophets that would show us the Path. This is the Writ of Union."

The Fleet Master turned from the audience to face the assembled novices. Oriné forced himself to stand straighter, holding his head high. Fleet Master 'Vadumee led them in their oath:

> _ So full of hate were our eyes _
> 
> _ That none of us could see _
> 
> _ Our war would yield countless dead, _
> 
> _ But never victory. _
> 
> _ So let us cast arms aside, _
> 
> _ And like discard our wrath; _
> 
> _ Thou, in faith, will keep us safe _
> 
> _ Whilst we find the Path. _
> 
> _ On and on our march shall go _
> 
> _ Till glory we do find, _
> 
> _ Salvation, too, for the dead _
> 
> _ And those we left behind. _
> 
> _ An alliance built on faith _
> 
> _ Will see our peoples mend: _
> 
> _ We will fight through doubt and flame _
> 
> _ To the Journey's end. _

The words were a strange power. A charge built in Oriné's hearts and flowed into his veins. He felt like he had been born, not anew, but for the very first time. Like Oriné 'Fulsam had only been an idea, and was now realized.

Now he was Oriné 'Fulsamee.

'Vadumee turned back to the audience. "Now they are warriors, the Sangheili of the Covenant. May they stand ever vigilant of heresy, and see the Covenant to its glorious fruition."

Here was the cheering from their families, the stamping of feet. Somewhere in the back of the plaza, drums began to thunder. Lithe female dancers wearing luminous dresses of fire began to move through the crowd, entertaining the banquet's guests with artful reenactments of decisive battles and popular operas. Oriné grinned as he realized they were there to honor him and his fellow warriors.

Yara leaned in close. "Are those Dai-mor?"

"I believe so."

"The Fleet Master doesn't shy away from luxury, does he?"

A hand landed on both Oriné and Yara's shoulders. Rtas inserted himself between them. This close, Oriné saw that his eyes matched the emerald armor he was wearing. "My father would be loath to miss an opportunity to invite the Dai-mor to a function. Mother studied the art at Virtuous Sanctum, you see, and remains close friends with the current Head Mistress."

He gently maneuvered them off the stage, but rather than into the celebrating crowd he took them backstage. Yara was the first to ask: "Where are we going?"

"I have a gift for each of you, compliments of the Fleet Master," said Rtas. He led them back to the same enclosure where they had received their armor. He pried open one of the crates, full of spare dermal suits, and withdrew two boxes from their ad-hoc cushioning. They were about as long as Oriné's forearm and twice as wide, carved from wood that, upon closer inspection, was made from the sacred  _ halli _ tree.

"Rtas," Oriné began, tone wary, but Rtas shushed him.

"Open them."

They did. Nestled in a deep crimson cushion were twin silver rods, one pair each. They were beautifully inscribed in the ancient Sangheili language, a cuneiform that was only practiced by the monks that lived ascetic lives in the cold, barren mountains. It had been superseded by Covenant Standard thirteen hundred years ago. Nevertheless, it still held a great deal of cultural significance.

It was not, however, the engravings that captivated Oriné. It was the things they had been carved on. They looked much like a  _ malier _ , but split in two and shortened. Small lights were visible along the length, winking at regular intervals.

Yara was just as shocked. "These aren't..."

"Yes," said Rtas.

Oriné looked up at him. "Your father has given us  _ rudhai _ ?"

"You two were closest to me on Jisako. These weapons are prized by my family, but I told my father that I had found warriors that were deserving of them as more than just decorations. He gifts them to you willingly, with the understanding that we shall practice much before we leave for war college."

Yara grunted, shutting the box. "Not much time, then," he said. "My father had me at my qualification an hour after we landed. I'm to go to Ardent Shield."

"As am I," said Rtas. "We can practice there together as well."

Oriné looked between the two of them. "I'm going, too. I qualified yesterday."

Rtas pulled them together and touched their foreheads. "Then we shall all be there to practice! The four of us, like we were on Jisako."

"Four?"

"Olah has been accepted to Ardent Shield as well."

That took Oriné by surprise. Orphans had no parents to possess a legacy, no family friends or relatives to speak well of them. For Olah to have gotten in, he had to qualify without these other considerations. 

In all likelihood, he had to win.

Rtas was pulling them again, this time back towards the feast. "Now, Oriné, some time ago you made mention of a beautiful sister..."


	3. Time Among Friends

**Chapter Three:** Time Among Friends

Stuttered dreams gave way to a violet storm. Slowly, Oriné 'Fulsamee awoke. There was a dull pounding in his head, his throat was dry, and there was a line of heat cutting across his face. It felt like he was back on Jisako. Had he been run down by a Yorahii? Was he lying in the open desert, dying? He thought of how he had felt, watching the Yorahii die, and decided this must be what it felt like.

But he had come home. Received his appellation. It wasn't sand he lay in, but his own bed. Yet his memory was still murky. He opened the eye not nestled into the bedding...

And was blinded. With a groan he rolled out of the sunlight, trying to find some shadow in which to recuperate, but it was too late. Fluid flooded his eye, seeking to soothe his damaged vision. It kept his eyes from staying closed, no matter how much he nictitated to keep them clear.

Grumbling, he forced himself upright and swung his legs out of bed to rise to his feet. The room was painfully bright.

Taking a step forward, he nearly tripped over his armor and dermal suit heaped together on the floor. He was beginning to remember—festivities, merriment, a great deal of drink... was there dancing?—but for the moment he was overcome with an impotent anger at the suns. He seized his curtains to pull them closed, but they came loose in his too-fierce grip and tumbled over his wrist.

He wanted to hate the curtains, but he couldn't muster the energy he needed. Instead, he dropped one of the coverings and wrapped the other around his naked waist as a casual sarong. Nudity wasn't a taboo among Sangheili, especially among family, but he didn't feel like venturing out hungover  _ and _ uncovered.

He heard a murmur from the common room. Ignoring it for the moment, he chose instead to go directly into the kitchen. He hoped to find some food, or an elixir that would cure his head. Or a plasma pistol to do the same.

A stocky creature was already there, rummaging through the cabinets. She came up to Oriné's waist and had a cylindrical tank and support harness on her back, with hoses running to a mask that covered her mouth. As he entered, she looked up and offered an informal half-bow.

"Good afternoon, my lord."

Oriné nodded. "Hello, Sasat." He stopped short. "Afternoon?"

"You've slept in, my lord, but I understand you had quite an evening to recover from." She withdrew from the cabinet with an armload of ingredients. "The lady of the house already asked me to prepare a meal for you."

Sasat was his family's house slave. She was an Unggoy, a methane-breathing native of Balaho. Her people had been subjugated by the Covenant centuries ago. They were used as slave labor and cannon fodder.

If Sasat resented her place in the castes, she didn't dare show it. She was awkward and clumsy in the higher gravity of Sanghelios, but she managed to project dignity. Oriné understood her to be an elder among Unggoy, though he didn't know her exact age.

He looked at the food she held and suddenly felt a wave of nausea.

"Actually, I don't believe I wish to eat..."

"Oh, I insist."

The voice came from behind him. Oriné turned and saw his mother standing in the doorway. She pointed to his improvised sarong. "Are the draperies that much more comfortable than your actual clothes? Because if you need a cloak, we have a very nice carpet down in the storefront."

He tried not to appear flustered—he was an adult now—but he must have succeeded in looking ill. Alsa favored him with a pitying look.

"If it's any consolation, your father can't hold his liquor well either."

"Lies!" The shout came from upstairs, through the gravity lift.

"Nor does he manage to abstain from it."

"Further lies!"

"But Sasat will prepare you something light, enough to rehydrate and nourish without taxing your stomachs too much."

Sasat gave a bow. "Thank you, my lady."

"You're the binding that holds our family together, Sasat." 

There was a barrage of half-hearted cursing from the common room. Alsa clicked her mandibles and turned away. "Time to soothe your father's wounded ego. Sometimes I wonder if perhaps your sister was meant for the battlefield, too."

Oriné watched her go and glanced at Sasat. "The battlefield?"

"Your sister and father have taken to morning games of Rocnas'al, my lord. Apparently Fulsa has a tactician's mind."

He nodded, feeling out of place. So much had changed since he left. Was it even still home, if all the buildings were the same but the memories had continued without him? He found himself overcome by the smallest things, like Sasat herself. It had been so long since he had seen anything besides predators and fellow Sangheili, he'd forgotten all about the Unggoy.

"Where have you been, Sasat?" Oriné asked. "You were gone since before I came home."

"Your mother had me visiting several villages outside the city. On business for the store." She began preparing a soup, fetching broth and spices and climbing onto a stepped stool to make use of the warming plate. She spoke while she worked: "It brings me peace to see you've returned, my lord. I've seen so many of my kin go off to war."

"To die in the service of the Covenant is to be forever honored."

"As you say, my lord."

"But I hardly went off to battle. I just..." He struggled to find the right words among the countless that suggested themselves. Most were curses, some were just too plain to explain the hardship or the relief at seeing that Spirit come swooping down after an entire year. None were blessings.

"Survived?" offered Sasat.

"Yes."

"All war is survival, my lord. You only have to outlive your enemy."

"War is purpose. It's a glorious crusade to pave the way for our promised divinity. It demands that we fight and we pray, not that we live." In fact, thought Oriné, life was not a prerequisite for the Great Journey. Those who died honorably, like Irut 'Yonom on Jisako, would undertake the Journey when the time came. It was part of the promise that those who fell defending the Prophets and their holy mission would attain divinity as well.

As far as he understood it, that applied to Unggoy, too.

"My apologies, my lord. I did not mean to offend."

Something was bothering Oriné, but he wasn't sure what it was. It was something to do with Sasat, with her demeanor. “It’s not your place to know.”

“As you say, my lord,” she said again.

That was it. She kept calling him "my lord." He was unused to being referred to with a title. It was a sign of him being an adult, but it felt… insincere.

_ So that's what Yara was talking about _ .

She delivered a bowl of soup to him. At first, it looked about as appetizing as a puddle of offal, but he understood the wisdom in his mother's words and began to drink. As it washed down his throat, it became a nourishing elixir. He drank greedily, and Sasat obligingly poured more.

Two-thirds of the way through his second bowl, yelling erupted from the family room. Oriné went up the lift and found his father engaged in some sort of victory pose as Fulsa knelt in front of the gaming table, looking dejected. His mother sat nearby, looking terribly amused.

"No fair," Fulsa muttered, glaring at her mother. "I had him until you started helping him."

"It's not nice to toy with your father," said Alsa. "Besides, Oriné is up now. The two of you were making plans last night, if I recall."

Oriné was confused, but Fulsa brightened visibly. "We're going to meet your friend, the Councilor's son, and spend some time in the city."

A hazy memory returned, but it was a brief visit and gone again as quickly. He shrugged. "As you say, sister." He couldn't remember any such appointment, but maybe that was for the best. Besides, he wouldn't want to keep Yara waiting.

* * *

The city wasn't any different from the last time Oriné had seen it, but it felt like a brand new world. He marveled at things that, scarcely more than a year ago, he had taken for granted: public gardens, fountains, crowds. Crowds were a major readjustment, though. His time on Jisako had been isolating, even in his jotun.

He expected to feel more like he belonged, as well. Now he was an adult. A warrior, though not blooded. Far away from the days of his childhood, when he would suffer the questioning looks of adults wondering if he was mature enough to browse the market or visit the temples alone.

But that belonging didn't come. Instead, he found he just didn't care if anyone looked at him. He would simply nod and continue on. It was liberating in its own way, but different from what he expected.

Their path through the city was cursory, at least for now. Their destination was Sorlal, the neighboring district and home to the aristocracy. It was far more lavish, with sizable estates for each family—Councilors, leading military figures, even some Prophets called Sorlal their home.

The streets were clearer as well, but that was due to exclusion laws. Only Sangheili were allowed in Sorlal, and then only Sangheili of the proper station. The caste system was not as strictly enforced on Sanghelios like it was in the colonies, but it allowed the nobler families and their guards to turn away those they didn't like. Exceptions were made for slaves and servants on errands, of course.

"If only father had become a Zealot," said Fulsa. "This could have been our home."

The twisting trunks of trees shaded their walking path, though their blossoms had long since vanished. Summer was ending, and while there wasn't yet a chill in the air, it wouldn't be long. When he remembered how cold the nights became on Jisako, Oriné shivered despite the heat.

They came to the 'Orgal Arculum, Yara's manor. It had walls around the grounds but no gate—not one that was currently deployed, anyway. As they stepped across the threshold, Oriné knew they were being scrutinized. Some of the Honor Guards were obvious, but he knew there would be others he couldn't see, watching.

The path to the door was long and straight, leading them past several decorative gardens and water basins. Oriné resisted the urge to stop and drink, worrying it would be uncouth, though he did dip his fingers in as he passed.

The door was guarded on either side by Honor Guards carrying pikes. For a tense moment, as Oriné and Fulsa stood there, the guards did nothing. Oriné could tell they were being examined closely. Carrying weapons wasn't problematic, and in fact was expected. Instead, the guards were trying to ascertain their demeanor.

Oriné was content to wait out the guards, but Fulsa clasped her hands and bowed low.

"We have an appointment with Councilor 'Orgala's son, at the lord's convenience," she said, straightening as she did so. The guard on the left didn't seem inclined to do anything, but the right-hand guard gave a slight nod and rapped on the door with his pike, its metal ringing against the metal of the door.

The door slid open. A bowing Unggoy waited inside.

"My lord and lady," she said. "Please follow me."

They were led through a foyer, where unexpected guests were invited to sit and wait for the pleasure of the arculum's owner. Beyond was a larger sitting room for more welcome guests, with a gravity lift set into the far wall, high windows, a table with drinks and breads arrayed, and a familiar face.

"Rtas," said Oriné, nodding to his friend.

From his seat, Rtas 'Vadumee beamed. "Oriné! I'm surprised to see you upright and walking."

"Of course I am," he said cautiously. He was beginning to suspect the breadth of things he couldn't remember from the night before.

"You drank so much, I think you might have put a Jiralhanae to shame."

Fulsa laughed. Rtas stood, turning to her and giving a courtly bow.

"The lady Fulsa," he said. "I had the singular honor of meeting you last night, but I doubt my presence registered through your veil of charm. I am Rtas 'Vadumee, at your eternal service."

She diplomatically returned the bow, though Oriné noticed a violet flush at the corners of her eyes. "You flatter me, Lord 'Vadumee, but of course I remember you." Her glance fell on Oriné. "I distinctly remember your approach to my brother's dancing. Very refined."

Oriné felt an aftershock from his earlier headache. "There was dancing?"

"You don't remember?" asked Rtas. "The Dai-mor? Your sudden inspiration?"

"No. What dancing?"

"Oh," he said knowingly. "There was much dancing."

"His approach," said Fulsa, "was to join you and help you find..." She trailed off and gave Rtas a questioning look.

"To help you find your spirit as a Sangheili cleric-dancer." Rtas's smile somehow grew wider. "Really, I think it's unfair of the Dai-mor to only accept female candidates. I think you have a genuine grace about you, 'Fulsamee. You should nurture this talent."

Oriné growled at him, but Rtas simply gestured towards Oriné's waist. "See your fashion sense, for example. Truly inspired."

For a second, Oriné didn't take his meaning. Then he looked down in horror.

_ Am I still wearing this? _ He was bedecked in his bedroom curtains. While Fulsa had gone to change before leaving, he had dozed on a couch while his father espoused the virtues of Rocnas'al to his mother.

"It's form and functionality," Rtas continued over Fulsa's giggling. "At any moment, you might convenience us by shading us from the sun, and then be dressed rapidly. I should think we may all take a lesson from you."

Approaching sounds interrupted Oriné's growing dread. Three figures descended on the lift, two talking animatedly: one, he recognized, was Yara. He was carrying on an argument with a matronly-looking Sangheili. The third he could guess was Councilor 'Orgala, dressed as he was in the silver armor and headdress of a Councilor of Masters.

"This is a walk into the city, Mother," said Yara. "Not a parade of triumph."

"But to wear such a bleak and plain kaftan?" The female, obviously Yara's mother, was plucking at the tan-colored garment Yara was wearing. "Take some pride in your family's stock, for the sake of the Gods if no one else. They see and account for everything."

"My place on the Great Journey won't be imperiled by my clothing choices," said Yara, brushing his mother's hand away as he stepped off the gravity lift. "Try to force me to wear a cape again and I'll choose to go naked."

"That would be more acceptable than this old thing."

"Quiet, dear," said the Councilor. "We have guests."

Rtas, Oriné, and Fulsa bowed to the Councilor. "My lord," said Fulsa, "thank you for inviting us into your home."

The Councilor only grunted. Yara stepped forward. "This is my father, Rakola 'Orgala, and my mother, Oslu Gal. Father, may I present Oriné 'Fulsamee and Fulsa of Sam. Rtas you already know, of course."

The elder 'Orgala gave them only a cursory nod in return. His eyes never left them. "A priestess and a warrior, and identical twins no less. I fear you bring a bad omen to my door." He focused on Oriné. "You are named in honor of Oron Jar 'Xiloree, yes?"

Oriné hesitated. "Yes, my lord."

"A regrettably common tradition among the lower castes. Very mercantile. But there is no shame in it, I am told." He gave them all a nod of his head. "I must go. The Council has business today."

He walked out of the room. Oriné was stunned, speechless. Fulsa looked like she would like to either cry or pull the headdress down from the Councilor's head and beat him with it. Rtas carefully found something to look at through the window.

"My father has a way with words," said Yara after a moment. "He's an aristocrat all the way through. He'd be offended if you cut him open, but only to see that his innards weren’t gilded, as the scriptures promise."

Rtas nodded. "The only reason he stands  _ my  _ company is because of my father."

Yara's mother, who looked uncomfortable with the unfolding conversation, jumped on the opportunity to change the subject. "The Fleet Master was a sight to behold last night. You must be proud to be following his path into the armada."

"I wouldn't so hastily decide my own fate," said Rtas. "In fact, I hope to join the ranks of the Prophet Blessed."

"Even more commendable," said Oslu Gal. "Does your father approve?"

"For the eternal glory of the Covenant," said Rtas.

* * *

The rest of the day was a struggle for Oriné, though only because of his friends. They spent the better part of the afternoon alternating between teasing him over last night—the bulk of which he still could not remember—and trying to convince Fulsa to stop referring to Yara as "Lord 'Orgalee."

They walked the city, commenting on the same observations Oriné had made on his walk to Sorlal. He was relieved to hear the city was as alien to Rtas and Yara as it had been to him. Fulsa helped fill in details of what had happened in their absence. Various shops closing due to their caretakers being deployed, notable visits from Prophets, festivals they knew from childhood.

Even her knowledge was lacking in some places, though. Her education to join the priesthood occupied most of her time.

"But you've completed your training?" asked Rtas as they settled themselves by a fountain. The suns were beginning to dip below the skyline, and Oriné was grateful for the shade. Sanghelios was not as punishing as Jisako, but he was still reveling in the sensation of temperate coolness. He idly dipped his hand into the water and sighed.

"Yes," Fulsa replied. "I'll be traveling to High Charity shortly after you all depart for Ardent Shield. I'll be a vestar at the holy temples there."

Rtas nodded. "I've seen the holy city twice now. The view from the towers is spectacular, though to appreciate the Dreadnought's size one must be in its shadow. I envy you the chance to live there."

"I heard High Charity and Ardent Shield were made from the same source," said Yara. "A planetoid that once housed heretics, exterminated by the Dreadnought's might shortly after the Covenant was formed."

"Isn't Ardent Shield smaller than High Charity?" asked Oriné.

Yara clicked his mandibles. "Perhaps the rest of the debris was smaller."

Rtas cleared his throat. Oriné glanced over to see him incline his head at Fulsa. She looked uncomfortable. "Speculations about the Prophets," she said, "are highly discouraged among the priestesses."

"As it is among the armada," Rtas said. The look he gave Oriné and Yara was enough to quiet them.

They kept their faces stoic just long enough for Oriné to believe they actually disapproved, but Fulsa giggled first.

The conversation lulled, and Yara took the opportunity to signal an Unggoy from a nearby tearoom to bring them drinks. By the time refreshments arrived, Fulsa's curiosity got the better of her and she began asking about Jisako.

At first, Oriné was concerned the subject might be too difficult for her to hear, but it became apparent that she hung on every word. He soon had to jump into the conversation before she got carried away by Yara and Rtas's boasts and exaggerations. They talked and laughed and chided until the sky began to grow dark, and lights within the fountain began to glow a soft blue.

Finally, Rtas stood and stretched. "My thanks for today. I'd forgotten how pleasant time among friends could be, when we're not fighting for our lives on a distant world."

"Thank Oriné," said Yara. "It was his idea."

Oriné shook his head. He still couldn't remember coming up with the plan, but he had to admit he enjoyed himself. "Thank you again for the  _ rudhai _ , Rtas."

Rtas chuffed and waved off his gratitude. "You can show your proper thanks by dueling me tomorrow evening. I would say earlier, but my father will be attending the Council session and expects me to accompany him."

Yara clicked his mandibles. "My father has no such expectations. Come to my family's estate tomorrow, Oriné, and we will duel." He looked to Fulsa. "You are welcome too, of course."

Fulsa began a formal bow but caught herself in time. Instead, she gave him a grin. "Thank you…  _ Yara _ ."

"Watch out for her, Oriné," Yara said as he and Rtas walked away. "She's smarter and wiser than you. If she turns out to be a better warrior, we'll take her to Ardent Shield and send you to be a vestar in her place."

As the light faded, Oriné and Fulsa walked home. His mind was so consumed by thoughts of Ardent Shield, of what it would be like to study at a war college, that he missed Fulsa asking a question.

"What?"

"Did you really ride that beast?"

"The Yorahii?" She nodded. "It wasn't as heroic as they made it sound. I was desperate, and I…" He caught himself before he said,  _ I was afraid of dying _ . "In any event, the others were also able to ride them."

"But you did it first."

He said nothing. Fulsa shook her head. "Honestly, brother, give yourself more credit. You're an upstanding warrior. I have more to fear in my priestess training than you do at Ardent Shield."

He snorted. "Hardly. None will be able to match your wit and intelligence. You'll be a priestess in no time, interpreting scripture and compiling codices."

"And I suppose you'll be exterminating the humans on some distant world."

They continued on in silence. Oriné's thoughts now turned to his sister and the knowledge that, at least in part, she shared his anxieties about the future.

Whether or not that was a comfort, he didn't know.

* * *

The dewy evening grass felt cool against Oriné's bruised flesh. It soothed the agonies Rtas had inflicted on him. His opponent lay next to him, nursing his wounds, breathing heavily. The echoing crash of the  _ rudhai _ faded, replaced by the whisper of the wind through the  _ halli _ tree planted in the estate yard. Oriné listened, and felt his soul at peace.

Rtas broke the silence first. "You're a quick study, 'Fulsamee. When you finally take up the sword, your opponents will rightly fear for their lives."

Oriné tried to laugh off the compliment. "If that's so, it's only thanks to your instruction. And your father's gift." He lifted one of the  _ rudhai _ with great effort. Rtas repeated the motion, clicking his weapon against Oriné's.

The sky silenced them. Sangelios's twin moons hung above them, nearly full, their light drowning out the stars. Oriné considered looking for higher ground, where they could look out over the city. But even the thought exhausted him.

Soft padding through the grass caught his attention. He craned his head and saw an Unggoy approaching, head low, hands clasped in front of her.

"I beg my lords' forgiveness," she said. "The household was honored with a call from the 'Fulsam lineage."

Oriné propped himself up on his elbows. Rtas only waved for the Unggoy to continue.

"Your father bids the Lord 'Fulsamee return. They are in communication with his brother."

Oriné forgot his injuries as he ran from the 'Vadum Arculum, Rtas's farewell echoing behind him. But by the time he reached the gravity lift in his own home, he remembered them. He limped into the family room. Everyone looked up at his arrival: his mother, his father, his sister… and his brother, in hologram.

"Brother," said Orna. He was dressed in his combat harness, an elaborate affair with graceful design and glowing flashes. It was the armor of a Ship Commander. A Zealot.

The unease he felt his first day home from Jisako crept back.

"Orna." Suddenly, Oriné's mandibles felt slack. He had been looking forward to seeing his brother again after so many years, and yet… "It is good to see you."

Orna inclined his head. "I was pleased to hear you survived your trial, but according to our fair sister, you apparently thrived. My congratulations."

Oriné felt the blood flush his neck. Their father said, "I had hoped you'd shared all your stories with me, Oriné, but your sister has been regaling us with more tales."

"Embellished," said Oriné, not as firmly as he would have liked. "I'm sure."

There was an awkward moment of silence, which to Oriné lasted an entire age. It was unlike the silence he experienced under the stars. Then, Fulsa said, "What can you tell us about your time in space, Orna?"

Orna clicked his mandibles. "Not much, I'm afraid. Assignments have been rather… dull."

"What is your command?" asked their father.

"The  _ Virtuous Pilgrim _ . A  _ CRS _ -class light cruiser. It's… adequate, though its crew is commendable. We've had three engagements with human naval forces, and they performed admirably."

Orita hummed. "That's a low tonnage for a combat mission."

"Yes, but it serves. We're well supported by the rest of the fleet."

Fulsa leaned forward. "Is it true that the human vessels are so much weaker than ours?"

Orna hesitated, tilting his head to the side. "They are," he said after a moment. "But they're still dangerous. They are effective at coordinating their numbers and can overwhelm our ships. Their weapons are surprisingly effective, as well."

"They use kinetic weapons," said Oriné. "They should just flatten against shielding."

"You would think," said Orna, "but they have rounds that can be accelerated to great speeds. Not only can they overwhelm our shields, but they maintain their momentum and can gut a cruiser from bow to stern."

He paused. "But there's nothing to worry about on my account. We've been rotated to the rear in order to safeguard our supply lines. There's little danger here."

Oriné heard his mother let out a breath he didn't realize she was holding. "Will you be able to come for a visit in person?" she asked.

"Perhaps."

The family spoke of inconsequential things. Oriné chafed, worried that they were wasting Orna's time, but if his brother was bothered he gave no sign. In fact, he frequently pursued mundane topics. At length, despite himself, Oriné found he was enjoying the cadence of the conversation.

Until the focus again returned to him. Fulsa said, "Oriné has been spending a great deal of time with Fleet Master 'Vadumee's son."

"Lyos 'Vadumee, of the Fleet of Righteous Penance?" Orna cocked his head at Oriné. "Thinking of pursuing me into the armada, are you?"

"We're training for Ardent Shield," Oriné explained. "Besides, Rtas has expressed an interest in joining the Prophet Blessed. I understand he'd rather not serve in the armada."

"Well. He may be an aristocrat, but he did not succeed in riding a Yorahii. I think you'd made a promising candidate for Special Operations."

Oriné glared at Fulsa, who found something fascinating to look at out on the balcony.

"Did they name a maneuver after you?"

Oriné was desperate to change the subject. "Did you have an Ascendance ceremony?"

It was like all the warmth had been sucked out of the room. Everyone turned to look at him at once, with various looks of reproach on their faces. Only Orna didn't, but only because his face was a shadow of shame.

"No," he said. "Why do you ask?"

Oriné struggled with whether to continue or abandon his line of inquiry, but he had already begun. "You're a Zealot now, yet we weren't invited to be part of any ceremony to mark your admission to the order. I was curious why that was."

His mother and sister still had dark looks on their faces, but Oriné saw his father's features set in a different way.  _ So he was concerned about this, too _ .

"There were…" Orna seemed to struggle for the right words. "Extenuating circumstances. The previous commander of this vessel didn't honor his position, and had to be removed. When I assumed command, there were several decisions that had to be made quickly." He clicked his mandibles, but the gesture looked forced. "I regret any distress it may have caused."

"There is no distress, Orna," said Alsa in a soothing voice. "War is not an orderly pursuit. We're simply happy to know you're safe and accomplishing your duties."

The conversation wrapped up shortly afterwards, with everyone bidding Orna goodbye, and him promising to visit soon. Oriné excused himself to bed, partly because his injuries were bothering him, but also because his mind was reeling.

The previous commander dishonored his position and had to be removed? It sounded like Orna had been part of a mutiny. The act itself was rare, but sometimes justified. Some Ship Masters who failed to fulfill their duties had to be removed by force of arms.

But the idea that it could have happened on the front, where the fleets were supposed to be united by their common enemies…

The implications kept Oriné awake until the sky outside grew light.

* * *

In the morning, Alsa busied herself with preparing the shop. She was a practiced hand now, after many years of minding it. The thought of maintaining a living through trade no longer daunted or disgusted her, though among the Sangheili, such things as mercantilism were borderline dishonorable. One should earn one's living through service to the Covenant, either in the military or the priesthood.

But even the Covenant's loyal servants needed goods, and the 'Fulsam lineage was a merchant house at its root. For Alsa, it had felt like trading up, as the family of 'Alsak farmed. She missed the fields, in a way, but she made her peace with the city.

She had to stop and rest frequently, however. Sasat took over duties when Alsa could not, and she was adept—it was why Alsa had sent her outside the city to visit the artisans who supplied the store. That type of work would be too taxing in her condition.

Still, Alsa tried to look busy when Orita came down, but he sensed something was wrong right away. He guided her over to a divan despite her protestations.

"When is your next appointment with the midwife?" he asked.

"Two days," she said. She hated how breathy her voice sounded, how faint. "After Oriné and Fulsa have left."

"You should meet her sooner."

Alsa was about to speak when she saw movement out of the corner of her eye. Her children appeared, coming down the gravity lift. She sat up straighter and gave Orita a little push. He pulled back, reluctantly.

"Where are you going?" she asked Oriné. She hoped her voice sounded more relaxed to him than it did to her.

"To the outer districts," he replied. If he thought anything was amiss, he gave no sign. "Rtas says there's a place where we can see the armada. I want to try and spot our transport ship."

Alsa looked to her daughter. "And you? Are you so interested in the fleet?"

Fulsa clicked her mandibles, trying to be nonchalant, but her mother couldn't help but notice the flush on her neck. "There's nothing else for me to do. My preparations for High Charity are complete, and I can only defeat father so many times at rocnas'al before it becomes dull."

They went out the front door. Orita turned to look at her, a sly look on his face.

"I believe her interest in the fleet extends only so far as the Fleet Master's son."

Alsa hummed, glad that her mate wasn't so obtuse as to miss the obvious. But rather than take the opportunity for banter, she surprised herself and said, "I can't survive this again."

Instantly Orita was beside her, but she waved him off. "Not that. I mean sending my children away."

Orita breathed out. "You're thinking of Orna."

"When he left, he never returned. We get a hologram maybe twice a year, more often once. No other reports. Some days, I wonder… will they even tell us if he dies? They didn't bother to tell us he'd been promoted."

Orita was quiet. She was about to push herself up, return to her duties, and then his hand alighted on her abdomen.

"Our family is strong," he said. "We've seen it in them from the beginning. Fulsa's clear and cunning mind, Oriné's bravery, and Orna." He chuckled. "Orna is unstoppable. Stubborn. There is nothing our children cannot do."

She put her hands on his shoulders and pulled his forehead against hers.

"In a way," she whispered, "that's what I'm afraid of."

* * *

The staging area was much as it had been two weeks ago, though now Oriné and his cohort stood in armor. The day was overcast, but there was no threat of rain. He looked up expectantly as he heard the whine of dropship engines, and a single Phantom descended through the clouds.

On his left, Rtas nudged his elbow. "This will be a much more enjoyable ride than the one home. Phantoms are much roomier than Spirits."

"I've never ridden in one," Oriné said. "Only seen them."

Yara stood to his right. "They're still small. Hopefully you're best friends with everyone you're riding with, or else the smell might bother you."

"Yes," said Rtas. "But at least there are holograms to show you the outside."

"I can't wait until we're on the cruiser and away from here."

Oriné glanced around. The crowd of their friends and family stood off in the courtyard, as they had when he'd returned from Jisako. He tried to pick out his father and mother. Fulsa was there, too, and she would be boarding a transport soon, as well. But her destination was the holy city.

His was Ardent Shield.

The Phantom stopped in front of the rows of armored Sangheili, hovering in the air. The bottom opened, and a shaft of blue light descended. One by one, each row marched into the gravity lift and was lifted up into the dropship.

Oriné followed Rtas, and felt the sensation of a thousand tiny hands grabbing him and pulling him up. As he went, he looked out one more time.

Sanghelios stretched out before him, but disappeared as he entered the troop bay. He took his place and closed his eyes, memorizing the image that lingered in his mind.

He wouldn't be going home for a long time.


	4. Ardent Shield

**Chapter Four:** Ardent Shield

The cruiser's dropship bay was packed with Sangheili. Oriné 'Fulsamee couldn't see any of his friends, but he found himself marveling at just how many candidates they had picked up for Ardent Shield. Well over a thousand, he estimated. Only a hundred had come from Sanghelios, the rest were from the colonies.

He looked for evidence of the different cultures that were said to exist beyond the homeworld, but everyone wore identical green armor. Beyond differences in skin tone and the occasional tattoo, they all looked alike.

They crowded towards the front of the bay, where a shimmering energy envelope kept the atmosphere in. On the other side was the featureless black of slipspace.

They were gathered to witness their arrival at Ardent Shield.

It wasn't long before the deck's rumble took on a different pitch, and the featureless black of slipspace peeled away to reveal the stars once again. Slowly, the view rotated until a station came into view.

There was a flat disk of rock, miles wide and thick, pierced through the middle by what looked to be a metal rod. As the cruiser drew closer, Oriné saw the rods weren't solid, but instead made of spires that rose from the rock and twisted together, purple and blue. Docking spines jutted out at regular intervals, several already mated with cruisers.

The Sangheili were murmuring, trading theories around Oriné.

"I heard the rock is from the world of the First Heretics, the first ones to be cleansed."

"No, it's from the same planetoid that was used to create High Charity. The Prophets' homeworld, which they transformed to be ready for the Great Journey."

"The spires are made from retired battlecruisers!"

"Fool. The shipyards at Aquova recycle everything into new warships. Nothing is left over for something like this."

"Do you think they have their own hanging gardens?"

Oriné listened, but he wasn't paying close attention. Instead, he tried to picture himself living here for the next three years. He already knew Ardent Shield focused its education on three principles: War, Knowledge, and Faith. Every Sangheili would be taught and tested on all three, and their paths would be determined by the area in which they excelled.

Candidates who did well in War would find themselves assigned to the infantry or the armada, depending on their preference and skills. Those who demonstrated mastery over Knowledge would become Inquisitors, combat scholars who explored Forerunner ruins. And those who found their home in Faith would continue on to advanced seminary, becoming priests and healers.

Oriné's father and brother had both done their best in War and gone into the armada. Oriné hoped to follow their examples.

The dull roar of speculation came to an abrupt halt as a Sangheili Major appeared on one of the loading platforms above. He hollered for the candidates to muster in the main bay and prepare for debarkation. Oriné fell into line, still not seeing Rtas or Yara, but he spared one last glance out at Ardent Shield. The station now filled the view completely, blocking all the stars from sight.

* * *

The candidates descended a massive gravity lift and then marched into a grand assembly hall, guided by Sangheili Minors and Majors the whole way. Yara 'Orgalee marveled at the massive chamber, which could easily hold four copies of the High Council Hall, the seat of the Covenant's political authority. As he followed the stretch of the dome above, he saw even more seating, what seemed to be balconies that overlooked the circular stage in the center. They were empty.

Eight figures waited on the stage. Yara squinted as his line halted and assumed a relaxed posture. Rtas 'Vadumee, who had been marching in front of him, was twisting his head from side to side.

"Where is Oriné?" he asked.

"He wanted to watch our approach to Ardent Shield, so he went with all the colonials down to the dropship bay to gawk." Yara nodded towards the stage. "Who is that?"

Rtas finally stopped moving and looked in the same direction. "A Prophet, and what looks to be the Princept of Ardent Shield."

One Sangheili on stage wore armor in a configuration not dissimilar to a councilor, albeit with a headdress that was swept back rather than up, and in Zealot gold rather than pearlescent silver. He wore a cape in the same shade of green as the assembled Sangheili candidates' armors, with an inlaid gold pattern that was visible to Yara despite being so far away.

The Prophet, on the other hand, was clothed in a flowing teal robe and wore a winged crown with a matching gold shoulder mantle. They seemed to sit heavily upon his frail form, with his long, sweeping neck and thin fingers at odds with the precious metal. He rested in a gravity throne that hovered above the stage, so that his feet would never touch the ground.

Yara held his breath. The only Prophets who warranted such thrones were the Hierarchs, the three who led the Covenant along the path to the Great Journey.

The other six figures on the stage were Sangheili Honor Guards, dressed in crimson armor and wielding ceremonial pikes. Nevertheless, they wore plasma rifles on their hips, and Yara knew exactly how quickly they would abandon ceremony to protect their two charges, should it become necessary.

He admired them. Had, in fact, since he was a crecheling, watching them patrol his family's estate from his window. A part of him hoped to one day serve in their ranks, as they did the vital work of keeping the heart of the Covenant safe.

"A shame Oriné is not nearby," said Rtas, pulling Yara back to the moment.

"Why?"

"He is my friend, but despite being from the homeworld he acts so provincial. Observing his reactions to all of this would be… amusing."

Yara pursed his mandibles but said nothing. Rtas had a point. 

Silence fell over the assembled Sangheili as the last of them stopped in position. All eyes watched the stage, expectantly.

The Prophet hovered into the center and began a prayer. It was in the Holy Tongue, which Yara did not know—would never be allowed to know, unless he joined the ranks of the priesthood. But the solemn intonation both soothed his soul and impressed upon him the gravity of the moment.

When the Prophet was done, the Princept began to pace around the stage. He looked out at the assembled Sangheili, eyes sweeping over them. For a moment, Yara thought he felt that piercing gaze on him, and it stilled his hearts. This was a Sangheili who could determine his entire fate, and his family's standing would not save him from a failing mark here. Every warrior at Ardent Shield was exceptional, and so none of them were.

Once the Princept completed one circuit, he began speaking as he started another.

"I greet you, young warriors. I greet you as equals. I greet you with all the honor and glory due your station, and recognize in you the might of our Covenant. The Sangheili are the protectors of the Prophets, sworn to silence heresy. It is here, at Ardent Shield, where you shall learn how.

"This station has provided the Covenant with its greatest warriors across the countless ages it has existed. Those figures of legend who vanquished our foes, conquered worlds, and expanded the strength of our forces had their beginning here, in these very halls. You must remember their triumphs and sacrifices, and you must honor them with every breath and deed.

"We will train you in the ways of War, Faith, and Knowledge. In the years to come, you will find yourself using all we have taught you, no matter the course of your service. You are blessed in this time: we have an enemy, the humans, who must be obliterated in their entirety. They are infidels, heretics who defile the relics of the Forerunners with their very presence. There will be no quarter for them, and that will make them dangerous. As we burn them from their holes, they will become more wild and desperate. Destroying them will demand every ounce of skill and strength you have.

"Here, you will become the weapon you need to be to carry out your holy mission. You will see these humans driven before you, and you will be victorious. Once this work is done, we will continue our path to salvation, kept safe by you."

The Princept continued to stalk around the stage. Every footfall was measured, every gesture deliberate. Yara felt a fire building inside him with every word, his warrior's blood stirred to action. Glancing around, he saw every Sangheili standing straight, eyes locked on the Princept.

It wasn't simply discipline that kept them focused. It was belief and purpose.

"From here," the Princept continued, "you will find your dormitories. Those warriors with you are your training cohort, and shall be as brothers to you. All your studies and practices will be done together, and you will succeed or fail as one.

"You must choose a cohort leader. How you choose is up to you, but your methods will be scrutinized. Choose honorably."

The Princept swept his critical gaze over the crowd once more, withdrew, and the Prophet began to sing another prayer. Then they were dismissed.

Yara and Rtas fell into step. To Yara, it felt like he was marching on glory itself. He was barely even disoriented as his hologram generators activated and began beaming information about his dormitory's location directly into his vision. His eyes struggled to regain their depth perception, to look past the light projected directly on his retinas. He felt vindicated that everyone else around him seemed to flinch and miss a step or two as they adjusted.

There was a line at the bank of gravity lifts. Rtas left Yara then, as his cohort was located elsewhere. "I'm sure we'll see each other again soon, my friend," he said as he left. Yara nodded and waited.

As he stepped up to the gravity lift, he was aware of another Sangheili at his elbow. He looked and smiled. "Oriné!"

Oriné bumped into his shoulder in greeting, but his eyes were glassy and unfocused. More than the holograms, Yara realized—the young Sangheili was distracted by the newness of his experiences. He was probably deeply affected by the Princept's speech, too.

"Where are you going?" asked Yara, trying to bring Oriné back to the moment. He also found himself hoping there would be at least one familiar face in his cohort.

"Residential deck forty-eight," said Oriné after a moment. His eyes flicked back and forth as he read a hologram only he could see. "Training cohort one-five-zero-five."

Yara breathed a sigh of relief. "Me too. Let's go together."

* * *

Two Sangheili Minors were waiting in the dormitory for their arrival. Oriné scrutinized their cobalt armor; they were marked as trainers. He and the forty-seven other Sangheili Tyros fell into a line.

The dormitory itself was a large circular space. The Sangheili currently stood in the center, which was equipped like a practice room: racks of _maliers_ and simulated weapons lined the walls, and a crate of holo-drones waited to be used for targets or obstacles. Eight doorways into bunk rooms were set at regular intervals, with a ninth that led back out into the hallway.

The Minors waited for everyone to circle around them and consulted a datapad. "This is training cohort one-five-zero-five," one of them read out. "And this is your assigned dormitory. All exercises and studies will be conducted with your cohort, and you will advance only if your entire cohort succeeds. If a single one of you falls behind, you will all fail."

Oriné glanced around, taking the measure of the room. Everyone else did too. He was pleased to have Yara as part of his cohort, and he was startled to see Olah 'Seroumee in the crowd as well. Otherwise, though everyone was clad in the same emerald armor, they all looked fit.

The Minor continued: "Your first task is to choose your cohort leader. By tradition, the leader is selected through combat, though other methods are permitted."

"Make it combat!" 

Everyone turned to look for the voice. A Sangheili began shouldering his way through the Tyros towards the front. He already held a _malier_ in his hands.

"It's the way of our forefathers," he said as he emerged in the center. "The way of Sanghelios! Only cowards and colonials would decide leadership any other way."

No one objected. One of the Minors, the one with the datapad, made a notation, while the other directed the Tyros to begin passing out _maliers_ . Oriné thought of his _rudhai_ , which were packed in with his personal effects. They should already be waiting for him, but he accepted a staff instead.

"Very well," said the datapad Minor. "The traditional method is by melee—"

"No!" The Tyro clanged his _malier_ against the floor. "I am D'zir 'Ukamee, and by the blood of House Ukam I claim the title of leader. Any who would challenge me are welcome to step forward."

The Minors exchanged a look, but the one who had passed out _maliers_ just clicked his mandibles. "It's an older tradition, but still valid." He looked out over the Tyros. "Are there any challengers?"

Oriné eyed D'zir. The way he sneered at the Tyros was unsettling. Oriné couldn't picture him helping his warriors train or study; he would just preen, revel in the glory of leadership, and rely on his family name to carry him forward.

Oriné felt Yara's presence at his side. "This one strikes me as empty armor," he said. "What do you think?"

"You might be right."

"Will you challenge?"

Oriné tightened his grip on his _malier_. He thought back to his entrance duel, when he had lost. But that was against a seasoned warrior, and D'zir had only as much experience as Oriné did. Maybe less.

He was about to step forward when whispers to his left caught his attention. Olah was stepping through the crowd, a severe look on his face. The Tyros in front of him quickly moved out of the way. Oriné thought he heard "orphan" hissed out, but the voices fell silent as Olah reached the center.

He didn't waste any words, simply raising his _malier_ and tapping it against D'zir's. To his credit, D'zir didn't posture or feign surprise. The Tyros moved back to give the duelists room, but Oriné saw others positioning themselves to issue the next challenge.

The Minors stepped back, and the fight was on.

D'zir charged first and didn't fall for Olah's feint, striking with a savage thrust and forcing Olah to parry. D'zir stayed on the offensive, and based on the reactions of the other Sangheili and the look of victory on his face, everyone believed the fight was already over.

But when Olah shifted his weight to slide out of the way of a downward swing, Oriné knew better. Olah's eyes were clear and focused, his mandibles slack, his positioning deliberate. Where others might see struggle or boredom, Oriné recognized determination and instinctive movement.

And he knew in an instant how this battle would end.

"Step back," he whispered to Yara, who nodded in reply.

The moment came when D'zir's confidence outweighed his caution. Oriné saw it the same moment that Olah did. Olah feinted again, and this time D'zir overcommitted, swinging his _malier_ too wide. Olah easily ducked the blow and swung his own _malier_ up, hard, into D'zir's throat.

D'zir staggered, eyes going wide, but there was only enough time for him to choke once before his legs were swept out from under him. Then Olah's _malier_ came down hard on the back of his neck.

D'zir's face smashed into the floor right where Oriné's feet had been a moment before. A purple spray of blood and teeth decorated the floor, and only a ragged gurgle indicated that D'zir still breathed.

The savageness stunned the Tyros into silence. Olah saluted D'zir's unconscious body with his staff and then returned to the center to await the next challenger.

Oriné glanced over the crowd and saw the other would-be leaders reconsidering their options. He turned and walked to the weapons rack, gently replacing his _malier_. Yara was only a step behind him.

After a moment, everyone else followed suit. They had their leader.

* * *

Oriné quickly realized that Ardent Shield was as different from Sanghelios as Jisako, albeit in vastly different ways. There was no shortage of water or food, and the Sangheili Tyros were afforded every creature comfort in the form of public baths, meditation gardens, and commissaries. The beds weren't luxurious, but neither were they ragged blankets cast onto sand and rocks.

However, much like Jisako, Oriné learned he had to be wary of predators. Many of his fellow Tyros took to martial practice with zeal, swinging their _maliers_ with abandon, not reserving their strength as Oriné's father had taught him to do. The instructors—all Sangheili—didn't seem interested in correcting this behavior, either, leaving Oriné to recover from bruises and learn to block with all his strength.

Training took the form of exercises held in a variety of theaters designed to resemble particular battlefields. One was uncomfortably like Jisako, with dry sand and hot rocks, and Oriné was surprised to learn only the horizon and sky were holographic—everything else had been brought in from other worlds. The other theaters were similar, representing a forest, a mountain peak, and a variety of Covenant facilities. One was made using the transported remains of an actual human city.

The exercises came in several forms as well, usually dividing their cohort—now called Cohort 'Seroumee—into smaller units to compete against each other. Oriné excelled at one scenario called Emblem, involving colored cubes that had to be stolen from opponents and returned to base. Others like Expanse, which required that teams seize and hold territories while their opponents did the same, tried his patience. And then there was Crucible, a free-for-all test of skill. Oriné detested it, while some like D'zir revelled in the unchecked violence.

But there was more to Ardent Shield than the curriculum of War.

Knowledge and Faith demanded equal shares of his time, in the form of lectures, recitations, and dissertations. At first he looked forward to both Knowledge and Faith; a small part of him had been jealous when he was forced to leave seminary in order to begin training, while Fulsa remained behind. He was curious.

After a few weeks, Oriné revised his enthusiasm. The rigors of Faith proved to be tedious: the ministers who oversaw it were almost all Prophets. They were vastly inferior in rank to the Hierarch who had overseen the Sangheili Tyros's induction into Ardent Shield, but he would not have assumed so based on their behavior. The ministers did not suffer interruptions to their sermons in the form of questions, leaving Oriné to mull over the deeper meaning of fables like Fasul's Valor and the Fall of Lithiom. 

Yet the ministers soundly rejected his interpretation in his first dissertation as "fanciful nonsense," so he was certain he was missing something.

How did Fulsa understand it all so clearly?

The absence of his family might have been less bearable if it wasn't for Knowledge. In these courses, the magisters who oversaw the Tyros seemed much more encouraging than the ministers. Areas of interest included the histories of each Covenant client species and their philosophies of warfare, as well as tales of heretics such as the humans. 

The latter especially caught Oriné's interest. He told himself it was a healthy preoccupation with the enemy he was to meet in battle, but part of him knew it had to do with Orna. Why had he been made a Ship Commander so quickly, under such mysterious circumstances? Did it have to do with the humans, their ability to fight, or their failings that made them unworthy of the Covenant?

Lessons on humans were taught by Magister Toro 'Alsakee, a tall and lean Sangheili who Oriné was surprised to learn was his uncle. He shared the same house name as his mother, Sak, and after one lecture the magister confirmed it. "I'm not surprised you didn't know," he said. "Our family hails from the colony of Silver Veil, and Alsa hated growing up there. When she left to train as a vestar, she never came home. Not even after she married your father."

The implications reeled in Oriné's brain, but he didn't ask any of the dozens of questions that backed up in his throat. He didn't want to seem rude, and Magister 'Alsakee was one of his favorites. He was knowledgeable about humans and managed not to sound dismissive; unlike most of the other Sangheili, whether they were teachers or students, he took humanity seriously as a culture and a threat.

That he found more interest in Knowledge than in War wasn't as alarming as Oriné expected. However, as a third order Tyro, he didn't have the spare time necessary to worry about his future. That was the purview of the first orders, those who were close to finishing their time at Ardent Shield.

Until he rose to their level, his only concern was survival.

* * *

The commissary was a massive hemisphere of space, like a bubble in the gut of Ardent Shield. It was larger than the assembly hall where the new arrivals had gathered to hear the Princept speak. It was necessary: while the assembly hall was only meant to hold one training legion at a time, the commissary had to accommodate a full third of Ardent Shield's population at any given time. The cadets were split up into different shifts, so the commissary was usually full at any given hour.

In truth, Rtas struggled to picture the four-tiered chamber being empty. Every time he walked into it, it was a rush of Sangheili Tyros and Unggoy servants. Third order Tyros like him always moved the fastest, as nearly every minute of their time was assigned to either the curriculum or their duties. Today was a rare and welcome exception.

He sipped from a bowl of tea at one of the tables on the third tier. He watched Oriné struggle with his most recent dissertation for Faith, stabbing his clawed finger at his lumidex with a quiet fury.

"Don't worry so much, my friend," Rtas said, setting his bowl down and refilling it from the cannikin on the table. "If you're having trouble, I'm sure one of the Unggoy can help you with the scriptures."

If Oriné understood the barb, he gave no sign. Instead, he grunted. "I understand the scripture fine. I just can't understand what Minister Lanonori wants from me." He set the lumidex and picked up his plate of galakhr, which from their slimy texture Rtas suspected had gone cold and dead.

"She asks us to dwell on the importance of Borasom, the Pathway of Life Eternal, but then she says we can't 'speak of the personal.' How am I supposed to _dwell_ on anything if I can't use personal experience?"

"Technically, the minister only said that _you_ can't speak of the personal," Rtas corrected. He cradled the warm bowl. "And you're missing the point, Oriné. She already lectured us on her thoughts about Borasom. You need only repeat her own wisdom back to her, and she will be satisfied."

"That sounds... pointless."

Rtas clicked his mandibles and sipped the bowl. "It's what Yara and I both did for our last dissertation, and she commended us for our effort. All the ministers want the same thing: students who will tell them how brilliant they are and maybe one day become noble enough to lift them out of teaching and put them on the Council of Masters."

Oriné had no reply. Rtas loved his friend, but he was such a romantic. It was clear that he had been nursed on stories of valor that had never been checked against reality. Rtas suspected that was what happened to those who were raised by fathers who were retired, or at least in reserve. They were coddled and understood little about the real universe around them.

Rtas glanced over at their other companions. Yara and Olah stood at the railing, looking down towards the first floor where the main entrance was.

"Yara," he said. "Oriné needs an education on the egos of ministers."

"I haven't the time," murmured Yara, but he trailed off. Then he suddenly straightened and cursed.

Rtas and Oriné exchanged a brief glance before rising and walking over. Something on the bottom floor was attracting a lot of attention, and Sangheili Tyros began crowding the rails.

They shouldered their way to the front and looked down.

Eight massive, shaggy beasts had entered the commissary. They were each over two and a half meters tall, with long fur covering their bodies. Sloped faces poked out from under heavy brows, large yellow tusks protruded from their lips. Their bulk, whether it was fat or muscle, was barely constrained by trappings of leather.

Rtas felt himself draw in a hissing breath. "Jiralhanae," he breathed out.

Yara gaped at them. "What are they doing here?"

Another form came into view, waddling in to stand beside the Jiralhanae. From above it was difficult to tell who it was, but as his reedy voice boomed over the commissary's speakers, Rtas instantly recognized Iwat'Kan, the senior minister of Ardent Shield.

"Your attention, students," he said, his first words nearly drowned out by the steadily rising murmurs. "It is the will of the Hierarchs that Ardent Shield, long the Covenant's premier war college for the Sangheili, open its doors to the Jiralhanae. They are a people devoted to honor and battle much as you, and together you will learn much from each other."

Minister Iwat'Kan led the Jiralhanae away, showing them where they could request food and drink. All of the Sangheili in the commissary were muttering to each other, the combined sound translating to a roar on the upper levels.

"Unbelievable," Yara said, looking first to Olah and then to Rtas. "They cannot do this. Ardent Shield is the place of the Sangheili, and then only those who are worthy. What tests did the Jiralhanae have to pass? I didn't see them struggling to survive on Jisako!"

"The will of the Hierarchs," said Olah, "is not to be ignored."

"The Princept must be furious," Rtas said. He tried for an unbothered tone of voice, but inside he was tense. His father—all their fathers—had fought the war to bring the Jiralhanae into the Covenant. None of them, as far as Rtas knew, believed it had been worth the effort. They were savage, brutal, and no matter what Minister Iwat'Kan said, Rtas could not believe they were honorable. Not after the tales he heard his father tell.

At that moment, an alert flashed in his vision, his armor warning him of their imminent Faith seminar. The others had received the same alert and pulled themselves away from the railing, pushing through the crowd towards the door. Rtas cast a glance at Oriné, who took the longest to turn away.

"Not as worried about your dissertation now, are you?" he asked. Oriné answered with a curse as he realized he left his lumidex on the table.

* * *

At first, it was easier than Oriné expected to avoid the Jiralhanae. Not many of them had come to Ardent Shield, only a couple hundred compared to the several thousand Sangheili already there. In addition, aside from common areas like the commissary and the hanging gardens, the Jiralhanae were kept in their own training legion.

He wondered how the instructors and magisters felt about teaching them. In the weeks that followed the Jiralhanae's arrival, he thought he detected a growing resentment among them, but they didn't speak about it. The ministers, on the other hand, became somewhat more bearable. Even Minister Lanonori didn't seem bothered by Oriné's questions, giving him passing marks on his latest dissertation. What that meant, Oriné could not guess.

But in the common areas, it was difficult to avoid looking at the Jiralhanae. Even in small groups—they never seemed to travel anywhere alone, which was probably wise—they drew the eye. Their raucous manners, their hideous features, and the tales of depravity and dishonor that hung around them like a cloud. It was for the latter, his father's stories and scars, that Oriné despised and avoided them.

It couldn't last.

Cohort 'Seroumee was summoned to the training theater built to resemble an arboreal forest, from a world Oriné didn't know. He arrived with the bulk of his fellow Tyros to find Olah standing in a clearing. Training rifles waited in crates, and each Sangheili took one, examining it for defects. They had all been instructed in their use and drilled with them, but this was the first time using them in an exercise.

Olah watched and waited as they arranged themselves into formation. "This will not be like our previous engagements," he began. "Until now, we have only faced each other in training. This time, we will be doing battle against another legion."

Oriné found Olah's eyes. As if he could sense his meaning, Olah said, "This is one of our first true tests at Ardent Shield. Our performance here will determine who among us is prepared to advance to the second order." He fixed the entire cohort with a glare. "I expect every one of you to succeed."

"Who is our enemy?" asked Yara.

"Unknown," Olah replied. "But they were brought in an hour before us, so they have the advantage. This will not be an easy challenge."

An understatement, Oriné thought, but aloud he asked, "What is our objective?"

"Somewhere in this forest, one of our foes carries an emblem. We are to capture it."

Oriné nodded. Emblem was an exercise where he excelled.

"Our strategy is this," Olah said, walking between the formation's ranks. "We will divide our cohort into twelve lances of four warriors each, who will spread out through the forest. Stay in contact over the battlenet and announce the enemy when you find them. We have only two hours to locate and take the emblem, but once we are in possession of it the exercise is over."

Two hours wasn't a lot of time, Oriné decided. Each training theater was several square kilometers. Their cohort had trained in this one a few times before, and each time they had been in different sections. They still hadn't seen the entire thing. For the enemy to have already had an hour to prepare and lose themselves in the terrain didn't leave much margin for error.

But splitting the cohort into lances made sense. Smaller groups of warriors could be more mobile and cover territory more easily. Once a particular lance found the enemy, they could call out the location and bring the others to fight.

Oriné was so busy strategizing that he nearly missed Olah organizing who was in which lance. He tuned in just in time to hear his own name: "'Fulsamee, you will lead the seventh lance. Take 'Orgalee, 'Ukamee, and T'yokee and scout the hollow."

Did he hear that right? "I... I am leading?"

Olah scowled. "Keep asking foolish questions and I will reconsider it. Seventh lance, fall out!"

The four Sangheili rushed off. Oriné was pleased to be working with Yara, but he did not know R'ha T'yokee well. And then there was D'zir, the would-be leader of the cohort who apparently still held a grudge against Olah for his early defeat.

Oriné wondered how well D'zir would keep that in check during this exercise.

"What now, my Lord?" asked Yara. There was a teasing note to the honorific.

Oriné ignored it. "We need to find our way to the hollow." It had been the site of one of their earlier exercises, a game of Crucible set in a large, rocky depression. Unfortunately, Oriné didn't know the way. "Can anyone tell which way it is?"

The other Sangheili hesitated. They all looked around, trying to get their bearings.

"Was it..." R'ha paused, considering. "It was near the grove, correct? One of the zones from Expanse? There was some kind of aqueduct nearby."

"A culvert," D'zir corrected. He glared at Oriné. "Shouldn't you know?"

Oriné nictitated. "Why would I know?"

"You are the leader. You should be prepared, like any good commander."

He opened his mouth to reply, but then reconsidered it. He had no way to anticipate that Olah would pick him as the lance's leader, but D'zir probably thought Olah was playing favorites. Admitting he was just as surprised would clear up D'zir's confusion.

But at the same time, Oriné thought, it would give D'zir—and probably R'ha—a sense of confidence in the exercise. If they believed there was a plan, they would be less likely to turn insubordinate and more likely to follow his directions.

So he went along with it.

"I was told to designate one of you as pathfinder," said Oriné. He looked between the two of them. "Are either of you volunteering?"

A flicker of suspicion passed over D'zir's face, but it only lasted a moment. He was probably weighing the possibility that, as lance leader, Oriné might have some influence over who was promoted to the second order. D'zir stepped forward. "I will do it."

He took a moment to survey the area. "We need high ground," he said. "We cannot find our way without a landmark, and I think the culvert should be visible from the treetops."

"If it's not?" asked Yara.

"Then we'll know with certainty that we're in the wrong place." He set off in the direction of a wooded incline. "We must find the tallest tree atop the nearest hill. That will show us our way forward."

The lance fell in behind D'zir. R'ha stayed close to him, rifle up and at the ready. Yara fell back to Oriné at the rear.

"Nicely done, my Lord," he said.

"Shut up, Yara."

* * *

D'zir climbed the tree while the other three spread out below it, covering as many approaches as possible. Oriné stayed alert for the tell-tale shimmer of active camouflage. He doubted their enemy would have it—Tyros were only allowed to train with it once they reached the first order, and their first cross-legion exercise wasn't likely to be against a higher-ranked cohort—but he was cautious all the same.

When D'zir climbed down, he reported he could see the culvert two kilometers to their southwest. If their reckoning was right, the hollow would be less than half a kilometer north of that.

Oriné checked the time on his display. It had been twenty minutes since the start of the exercise. Already a sixth of their time had passed. He reported in to Olah over the battlenet, and then he led his lance to the west.

Their progress was slow, as Oriné directed them to proceed with caution. He had no idea where the enemy was or whether they were lying in ambush. Fortunately, given the tension in the air, none of his lance seemed to want to rush ahead.

They were probably about halfway to the hollow when Oriné's earpiece filled with the sounds of battle. A garbled voice called out contact with the fourth lance and then fell silent. Olah tried to reestablish contact, but when that didn't work, he directed the third lance to investigate the fourth's last known location.

Oriné looked at the other Sangheili. None of them gave any sign of having heard the exchange.

"Fourth lance has engaged the enemy," he said. "No reports since."

R'ha stumbled, but just for a moment. "That's Tnir's lance."

"That fool was probably the first to drop," muttered D'zir, loud enough for everyone to hear. R'ha glared at him, but before Oriné could silence them, Yara said, "Do you smell that?"

Oriné motioned for the lance to stop. At first, he didn't smell anything out of the ordinary, just the perpetually wet and earthy smell of the forest. It had filled his nostrils when he first entered the theater, but he had since become accustomed to the clinging odor.

Then, suddenly, it hit him. A musky stench, wetter than the forest, like drowning in a yorahii's watering hole. He shook his head, but the smell stayed with him.

"Haunting," Yara confirmed. "Something must have died here."

To simulate a real forest, the architects of the theater had transported animals into it. They were small, mostly rodents, birds, and lizards who could survive off the natural bounty of the space and not out-compete each other. Oriné had heard a rumor that sometimes larger game was brought in for the faculty to hunt.

Given the outsized stench, he wondered if one of those creatures had escaped, taken sick, and died nearby.

"Keep moving," Oriné said, gagging slightly when he was unable to avoid breathing.

The smell stayed with them as they approached the hollow. D'zir cursed as they saw that it lay empty, no sign of the enemy. He turned to Oriné and demanded, "What now?"

Oriné was beginning to think of investigating the culvert when the shooting started. At first, he wondered if he was seeing things: ghostly apparitions flitting between the trees. Then he realized they were the pale green gobs of low-power plasma fired by training rifles. They splattered against trees and rocks, smoking where they struck.

Two shots found their marks, one hitting D'zir in his armored thigh, the other hitting R'ha in the neck. Both cried out, D'zir in alarm and R'ha in pain.

Oriné and Yara turned, following the line of fire and bringing up their rifles. They managed to squeeze off a couple of shots before Oriné saw a tree charging them.

Not a tree, he realized a moment too late. A Jiralhanae.

It had smeared its fur with mud and braided vines and twigs into its hair, but aside from that it appeared to be naked. It clutched a training rifle in its massive paw, but rather than holding it at the ready, the beast was carrying it above its head and howling.

The two Sangheili had no time to react. The Jiralhanae collided with both of them, knocking them down the incline and into the hollow. Oriné heard rather than felt the crack as his armor collided with a jagged rock, but his movement stopped even as his vision kept spinning.

The Jiralhanae stood at the top, hooting in victory, and began to level its rifle at him. Just then, a volley of fire streaked past it, drawing its attention. Without realizing what he was doing, Oriné yanked his own rifle up and fired, not bothering to aim.

Luck, at least, was on his side. One shot hit the Jiralahane in the chest. He bellowed as the stuff started smoking, but turning back to Oriné only made him take the next shot straight to the mouth rather than the side of his head. The screech that followed was so ferine that Oriné didn't realize it came from the Jiralhanae until much later. He just watched the creature drop with relief and amazement.

After quickly checking to make sure Yara was okay, he scrambled to the top of the hollow and looked for D'zir and R'ha. D'zir was crouched by a tree, an additional splat of smoking essence on his right shoulder and upper arm. R'ha, however, lay unmoving on the forest floor.

They rushed over, and Yara knelt by the fallen Sangheili. Oriné felt himself growing pale. "Dead?"

Yara held his hand in front of R'ha's mouth for a moment. "No," he said finally. "Unconscious. The training rifles must have a sedative effect."

D'zir grunted. He was walking, but his right arm hung oddly. "The substance they fire contains toxins that numb the body," he said. "I can't feel my arm, except for the burning where it touched me."

Oriné glanced at the fallen Jiralhanae. He watched the body take a shallow breath. Alive too, then. "Now we know who our enemy is."

"There were two more firing from the trees," D'zir said. "They retreated when their comrade fell."

"They're likely falling back to a strong position."

"Exactly," D'zir hissed. "We must follow and engage."

Yara stepped forward. "Oriné is the lance leader. He will make the decision."

D'zir's stare snapped towards Yara. "Oriné is the one who led us into this ambush."

Oriné could see Yara getting ready to defend him, but he couldn't let someone else speak for him. "We were following Olah's directives," he said.

D'zir scoffed. "He only chose you as the leader because you're one of his followers from Jisako. You haven't the martial skills to earn your place here, and you are clearly unable to think or strategize for yourself."

He hadn't drawn a sword and sworn an oath, but the challenge was no less clear. Oriné was aghast—they were in the middle of an exercise against a dangerous foe, and D'zir wanted to soothe the wound his ego had sustained months ago. For this kind of challenge, however, there was only one response.

D'zir must have sensed the change in Oriné's posture, as he sprung back and readied his training rifle. A challenge was properly settled with swords or another melee weapon, but these were the only weapons at hand. Yara unconsciously stepped back, heels at the rim of the hollow, to take the judge's position.

Oriné and D'zir were tense, but Oriné couldn't focus. He was caught up on how ridiculous it was to risk the entire cohort's success on the perception of a slight. 

As D'zir was preparing to fire, Oriné was readying himself as well. He was going to drop his rifle, forfeit the challenge, and let D'zir lead if that's what he wanted. It would cost him face, but if they hadn't lost too much time, they could still track down the Jiralhanae and see if one of them carried the emblem.

He was about to do it when he saw a shadow move in the trees.

Whether it was his warrior instinct or just the trauma of being attacked by the Jiralhanae earlier, Oriné tracked it automatically and fired. The bolt passed through the air right beside D'zir's head and disappeared into the forest. Oriné didn't have time to see if he hit, though, before D'zir's shot caught him in the face.

His world turned into a smear of sluggish agony. It felt like the rest of his body had fallen away, leaving only the clearly-defined edges of pain that was his face, mouth, and mandibles. He wasn't sure if he screamed or not, but the toxins made his throat burn like he had screamed for hours.

In fact, he wasn't sure how much time passed in that anguished void. He would remember it as days, but the shock of hitting the ground gave him some clarity, and that would have happened only an instant later.

He struggled to open his eyes. One was nothing but a white-green blankness, but the other managed to look through the pain. Four Jiralhanae stood over him, growling and barking in their own tongue. D'zir lay spattered in training rounds where he had stood before. There was no sign of Yara.

One of the Jiralhanae stooped down and grabbed the collar of Oriné's training harness, hauling him up. Face-to-face, Oriné saw it had flecks of essence on its fur at its neck. The one he had seen moving in the forest? How was it not doubled over in pain?

A horrible rictus spread across its face, tusks bared, hot breath washing over Oriné's face. So that's what the smell had been.

"Hello, little hatchling," it said, its deep voice rumbling out Covenant Standard.

Oriné couldn't speak. He tried, coughed instead. Spittle alighted on the Jiralhanae's face, but it didn't seem to notice.

"You are to be the Covenant's best warriors?" It barked out a laugh. "Pathetic."

Where were his arms? Oriné couldn't feel anything. Everything under his neck existed in a murk, and everything above it was ablaze with pain. His one good eye roved around, looking for relief, when he saw it: the emblem.

It was tied to this one's back, camouflaged by leaves and stalks but plainly visible from this angle. If Oriné had his strength, he might have grabbed for it, but he wasn't sure if he still had a body to try.

Then he saw something else. Movement, just a little, by the rim of the hollow.

Yara.

He looked from his friend to the emblem and back. He couldn't tell if Yara could see it. All they needed to do, he remembered from Olah's briefing, was take it. As soon as a Sangheili had it, the exercise would be over.

Yara had to do it.

The realization was enough to give Oriné a moment of feeling. He kicked out with his legs and scrambled with his arms towards the emblem, the purple cube, victory. He knew he couldn't reach it, but that was the point.

The Jiralhanae seemed amused by his efforts. It lifted him up and then threw him at the ground.

There was nothing but darkness.

* * *

Everything came back in a flash, and Oriné tried to leap to his feet. Instead, his limbs became entangled in blankets, the world tilted ninety degrees, and he crashed into a bulkhead.

Not a bulkhead, he realized. The floor.

He looked around. Beds were arranged in a circle, but they were all empty. He had fallen out of one. The room was unfamiliar to him, but it was dimly lit except for hovering holograms at the foot of each bed. Most were tranquil, but the one by him was spiking erratically.

A healer's den.

A door opened and two Unggoy came scurrying in. They helped him back into the bed, one smoothing the sheets over him while the other misted a bulb of something in Oriné's face. He tried to ask them what was going on, but they ignored him and quickly left.

He hesitated, wondering if he should try getting up again, when the door opened again. A Sangheili instructor walked into the room, wearing the crimson combat harness of a major. Oriné struggled to attention and saluted.

The instructor waved his hand. "Sit, 'Fulsamee. You are not well yet."

Oriné obeyed, settling himself back into the bed. The instructor towered over him, watching him through hooded eyelids. He looked familiar to Oriné.

"You," he said after a moment, "are the one I faced in my qualification duel."

The instructor nodded slowly. The name on his harness read 'Mantakree. "I remember you as well. I'm glad to see you took my advice on failure to heart. Though," he gestured to the room, "I suspect you rather hadn't right now."

Failure. Oriné bowed his head. "Then we failed the exercise. The Jiralhanae won."

'Mantakree clicked his mandibles. "Did you?"

Oriné looked up at him, confused. "I... don't know." He struggled to remember. All he could remember was staring into the Jiralhanae's face as it laughed at his efforts. "I was knocked unconscious."

"Indeed. But your comrade understood your meaning and was able to seize the emblem. It was a victory for Cohort 'Seroumee."

A lightness filled Oriné. Victory!

"It seems your actions were instrumental in achieving it, but with some marks against it. You were being monitored by holodrone, and the instructors watching were concerned with your lack of command discipline."

He was puzzled. "My Lord?"

"Your subordinate challenged you for leadership, 'Fulsamee. And technically, he won." 'Mantakree held up a hand, forestalling Oriné's protests. "Upon review, we saw that you were firing on the enemy. But your actions were questionable in several instances. First, you allowed 'Ukamee to lead the group as pathfinder, rather than take that duty on yourself. Second, you failed to report the first skirmish with the Jiralhanae to your cohort leader."

Oriné pursed his mandibles. He should have reported to Olah, it's true. He had just been caught up in the moment. "Why shouldn't I have let D'zir be pathfinder?"

'Mantakree cocked his head. "Leadership was your mantle, not his."

"He knew the area, or at least seemed willing to try. It made sense to allow him to find the way to our target area, especially when I lacked that knowledge myself."

"Yet you knew he had greater designs, did you not?"

"I thought he would focus on the exercise at hand, not take the first opportunity he could to question me." And then shoot me in the face, Oriné thought but did not say.

'Mantakree regarded Oriné for a long moment. "You seem to be a very unconventional warrior, 'Fulsamee. I don't know if that will be a blessing for you or not. In the future, consider not just the skills of your subordinates but also their dispositions. It will serve you better than blind trust that everyone shares your values of service."

Oriné wasn't sure how to take that. His head still felt fuzzy.

"So," he said after a moment, "we are closer to promotion?"

"Your cohort has already been promoted to the second order. As your healers have said there is nothing left to treat you for, you will join them." 'Mantakree turned and walked out of the room. "And I very much look forward to seeing your future battles, 'Fulsamee. I'm sure they will be... entertaining."


End file.
